*  LIBRARY*  E D I TI O N  *i 


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CALIFORNIA     J 


A  Modern  Quixote 


STORY  OF  SOUTHERN  LIFE 


BY 


S.  C.  McCAY 


CHICAGO: 

W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT 

1893 
MORRILL,  HIGGINS  &  CO. 

COPYRIGHT 

1893, 
W.  B.  CONKEY  COMPANY. 


HTFT 


o  6 

>VOtL- 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 

CHAPTER  I 

A  typical  spring  morning    in  the  South; 

flower  bed  and  blooming  tree  ablush  with  ex- 
quisite color.  Everywhere  exuberance  of 
leaf  and  blossom  on  the  old  McNaughton 
place.  Summer,  always  glorious  in  this  re- 
gion of  middle  Georgia,  is  masking  in  the 
splendor  of  her  eternal  youth,  this  once  proud 
homestead  of  a  once  proud  family. 

By  peering  through  the  arbor-vita^  hedge 
which  separates  the  "back  yard"  from  the 
front  part  of  the  grounds,  a  stranger  would 
view  a  characteristic  scene  worthy  his  notice. 
It  is  washing-day,  and  if  you  have  never  seen 
washing-day  in  the  South,  you  will  probably 
be  surprised  to  hear  it  spoken  of  as  one  of 
the  most  picturesque  scenes  this  country  can 
show. 

In   the  shadow  of  a  thick  clump    of  mul- 
7 

808 


8  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

berry  trees  (not  the  fruit  mulberry,  but  the 
umbrageous  fan-leaved  shade  tree)  stands  a 
rustic  bench  supporting  a  number  of  huge 
tubs,  all  of  a  subdued  natural  wood  color 
which  harmonizes  with  the  general  effect  of 
the  knotty  old  tree  trunks  against  which  they 
are  leaning.  At  a  little  distance  from  the 
washing-stand,  a  black  pot,  of  very  gipsy- 
like appearance,  is  standing  upon  its  three 
short,  sturdy  legs  amid  the  crackling,  flaming 
sticks,  constantly  poked  under  it  according 
to  Aunt  Viney's  directions. 

"Washing-day,"  she  says,  "ain't  nuthin'  to 
what  it  used  ter  wuz,  on  dis  yere  place.  Why, 
Lawd!  chile,  I  'members,  when  my  ole  mis- 
sus wuz  livin',  it  tuk  nigh  on  ter  a  dozen  hand 
to  keep  it  gwine  on;  why,  Honey!  it  tuk  me'n 
Lucindy'n  Altoony  to  battle  de  clo'es  out 
when  dey  wuz  dun  washed;  Unc'  Ben,  you 
'members  how  many  niggers  had  to  go  for  to 
tote  de  wahter,  an'  all  dc  little  onery  wufless 
pickaninnies  on  de  place  could'n  do  nuffin 
'sides  jes'  to  keep  de  pot  bilin'." 

The  crimson-kerchiefed,  white-turbaned 
figure  of  old  black  Viney,  as  the  reader  per- 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  9 

ceives,  is  the  presiding  genius  of  the  scene. 
She  and  old  "Unc'  Ben"  are  the  sole  remain- 
ing representatives  of  all  that  group  of  merry 
darkies,  young  and  old,  who,  in  happier  days, 
made  the  old  place  ring  with  melody  on  wash- 
ing-day. But  alas!  Aunt  Viney  cannot  sing 
to-day;  she  goes  about  her  work  with  a  heavy 
heart.  The  old  establishment  of  the  Mc- 
Naughtons,  of  which  she  considered  herself 
a  chief  pillar,  is  hastening  to  its  fall. 

Both  Ben  and  Viney  were  born  on  this  old 
place,  and  considered  themselves  as  much 
fixtures  as  the  ivy-covered  stables,  almost 
untenanted  now,  or  the  sentinel  poplars  that 
guarded  the  garden  front ;  but  things  had  come 
to  pass  during  the  last  few  years,  here  on  the 
old  homestead,  after  which,  anything,  save 
the  deluge,  would  seem  to  them  an  impotent 
conclusion. 

Miss  Laurie — or  "Honey"  as  the  two  old 
darkies  called  her — was  the  motherless  daugh- 
ter of  their  young  mistress,  who  a  few  short 
years  ago,  inherited  on  her  marriage  day  the 
flourishing  Hargrave  estate  with  all  its  belong- 
ings.     Willful   as   a  young  queen,  Ruth  Har- 


IO  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

grave  had  married  Marshall  McNaughton,then 
a  dashing  young  officer  fresh  from  the  horrors 
of  Indian  battles,  whose  brilliancy,  perhaps, 
blinded  the  young  girl  to  possible  delinquen- 
cies in  her  hero.  Guardians  and  friends  op- 
posed the  match  bitterly;  he  was  of  obscure 
family  and  had  risen  to  prominence  by  sheer 
personal  bravery  in  the  service.  His  educa- 
tion was  defective,  but  his  manner  charming. 
Had  her  parents  been  alive,  they  would  prob- 
ably have  prevented  the  marriage,  but  this 
dainty  rose-leaf  of  a  woman  had  all  the  fire 
of  the  South  in  her  veins,  and  opposition 
from  those  about  her  fanned  her  resolution 
into  a  blaze. 

She  married  him  with  great  ceremony,  and 
installed  her  handsome  husband  as  master  of 
the  vast  old  estate,  with  all  its  acres  and 
slaves.  Perhaps,  but  for  one  disastrous 
event,  the  world  would  have  been  obliged 
to  confess  itself  at  fault;  for,  whereas 
it  had  predicted  great  misery  from  the 
mesalliance,  the  early  years  of  the  married 
life  of  the  McNaughtons  were  an  idyl  of 
happiness.     When   little   Laurie   was    about 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  II 

four  years  old,  came  talk  of  that  tragical  mis- 
take, the  "Mexican  war."  It  appealed  to  the 
military  side  of  Marshall  McNaughton's  ad- 
venturous spirit,  which  rose  to  the  occasion, 
and  he  was  soon  mounted  and  on  the  way, 
with  a  body  of  well-equipped  followers,  to 
the  Rio  Grande;  his  enthusiastic  wife  applaud- 
ing his  patriotism,  and  standing  with  her 
little  daughter  by  her  side  to  wave  him  a 
"good-bye."  This  was  the  fatal  step;  the  life 
of  the  camp  and  field  was  what  his  soul  loved, 
but  it  spoiled  him  forever  for  the  higher  life 
of  home. 

With  the  best  that  was  in  him  he  did  hom- 
age to  his  beautiful  wife,  and  under  her  influ- 
ence he  might  still  have  been  saved,  but  fort- 
unately for  the  world's  reputation  for  wis- 
dom, and  everlastingly  unfortunate  for  him, 
she  died  soon  after  his  return,  leaving  her 
little  daughter  to  mock  him  with  the  lost 
mother's  face  at  every  turn,  and  the  world's 
"I  told  you  so"  was  vindicated. 

It  seemed  as  though  while  happiness  might 
have  saved  this  weak,  generous  nature,  sorrow 
had  wrecked    it;   old    habits    returned;   early 


12  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

training  asserted  itself,  and  he  went  back  to 
the  society  of  associates  from  whom  the  influ- 
ence of  his  wife  had  alienated  him  for  a  time. 
Notable  among  these  was  Hank  Staples,  a 
common  fellow,  but  a  sort  of  boon  com- 
panion, who  had  been  with  McNaughton  in 
his  Mexican  campaign,  and  who  was  enabled, 
by  a  mere  chance,  and  without  any  great  dar- 
ing on  his  own  part,  to  save  the  major's  life 
on  one  occasion  when  the  young  officer's  mad 
recklessness  had  placed  it  in  jeopardy.  This 
was  sufficient  to  win  him  a  certain  place  in 
the  warm  heart  of  his  patron  from  which  no 
revelation  of  meanness,  no  ill-bred  presump- 
tion could  dislodge  him.  Many  people  whis- 
pered that  if  the  unsuspecting  major  ever  had 
his  eyes  opened  to  a  fact  that  was  long  ago 
patent  to  every  one  else — namely,  that  Hank 
Staples  had  presumed  to  fall  in  love  with  his 
pretty  daughter — there  would  be  an  explo- 
sion of  wrath,  after  which  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  find  the  remains  of  Mr.  Staples.  But, 
strangely  enough,  he  did  not  see  it.  He  had 
a  tender,  almost  reverential  regard  for  little 
Laurie,  but  it  was  not  able  to  save  him   from 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 3 

his  degrading  excesses;  and  just  strong  enough 
to  drive  him  back  to  seek  oblivion  of  his  mis- 
conduct when  she  looked  at  him  with  her 
mother's  eyes.  And  so,  during  the  swift 
years  in  which  she  was  growing  into  a  beauti- 
ful womanhood,  he  had  gone  down  the  whole 
scale — had  sunk  from  the  wealthy  owner  of  a 
fine  old  plantation  and  all  its  accessories,  to 
the  possessor  of  a  grand  house  with  some  fields 
around  it  which  he  had  not  the  means  to  cul- 
tivate. Slaves,  acres  and  horses  had  gone, 
one  by  one,  each  new  sale  being  followed  by 
a  more  prolonged  orgy  with  Hank  Staples 
and  his  other  friends. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  certain  loyalty  to  the 
choice  of  the  young  mistress,  perhaps  it  was 
due  to  that  empire  over  all  hearts,  which,  in 
all  his  downward  career,  Marshall  McNaugh- 
ton  never  lost — but  something  bound  the  two 
old  servants  to  the  interests  of  the  master 
with  an  unquestioning  devotion. 

"It's  Hank  Staples  and  all  dat  trash  what 
am  gwine  to  ruin  my  po'  Mars'r,"  was  the 
only  reasoning  their  true  hearts  would  admit. 

"Honey  soon  be  a  grow'd  young  lady,  Sis' 


14  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

Viney.  'Pears  like  'taint  longer'n  yestiddy, 
her  ma  wuz  runnin'  'round  yere  dis  like  her; 
dey's  jes'  as  much  like  one  or  nudder  as  two 
black  peas  is, "mused  Uncle  Ben,  leaning  over 
to  knock  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe;  for  just 
then  they  caught  sight  of  Laurie's  pale  pink 
muslin  through  the  bushes,  as  she  ran  in  her 
childish  way  down  the  garden  path. 

"Yes,  tank  Gawd!"  responded  Aunt  Viney, 
"her  ma's  dresses  jes'  fit  her;  an'  dat  yonder 
pink  muslin,  what  young  miss  use  ter  love, 
kase  de  major,  he  say  she  look  jes'  like  a  little 
chinquepin-rose  in  it,  look  jes'  'zactly  same 
on  Honey,  an'  she  ain't  done  nufnn  to  it  cep'n 
jes'  put  it  on.  Dat's  de  last  one  of  'em,Unc' 
Ben,"  she  went  on  with  a  dolorous  sigh,  "and 
de  Lawd  know  whar  she  gwine  to  git  no 
mor'." 

She  thought  in  silence  for  a  minute,  and 
then  added,  "What's  de  use  o'  bein'  purty  if 
you  ain't  got  no  clo'es?" 

This  was  a  poser  which  Uncle  Ben's  mas- 
culine mind  could  not  grapple  with.  He  only 
shook  his  head. 

"Well,"  he  said  presently,  "sumpin'  got  to 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  15 

be  done,  Sis'  Viney;  Honey  be  a  havin'  bo's 
arter  while' n  den  she  be  a  wantin'  yearbobs 
and  a  heap  o'  things  what  she  aint  nebber 
been  study'n  'bout  befo'." 

"Humph!"  responded  Aunt  Viney  scorn- 
fully, "dat  show  what  fools  men-folks  is; 
Honey  got  mo'  bo's  now  dan  she  kin  shake 
a  stick  at." 

This  was  hyperbole;  Laurie  had  only  one 
acknowledged  beau  at  this  time;  but  a  woman 
who  wouldn't  exaggerate  a  little  on  that 
theme  isn't  half  a  woman.  "Mas'r  Walter 
Marlowe  dead  in  lub  wid  Honey  'n  Honey  lub 
him  too,  but  she  don'  know  it  yit." 

"Bress  de  Lawd !  yer  don'  say  so,  Sis'Viney. 
Mas'r  Walter  in  lub  wid  our  Honey!  Yah! 
Yah!  our  little  Honey!  Why,  dey  allers  play 
togedder  since  dey  wuz  little  chillun — but 
hold  on!  Sis'  Viney,  yo'  femining  min'  don' 
take  in  de  sitiwation.  How  Dr.  Marlowe's  son 
gwine  to  marry  our  Honey  when  de  ole  gem'- 
man  he  kaint  git  'long  wid  de  major?  Don' 
you  know  Honey's  pa  ain't  nebber  been  to 
hear  de  doctor  preach  since  young  miss  die, 
and  he  kum  over  yere  to  kin'  o'  comfort   us 


l6  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

like,  an'  den,  mas'r  he  jump  up  outen  his 
cheer'n  he  'lowed  he  did'n  want  ter  hear  no 
sich  nonsense;  an'  ef  de  Lawd  did'n  want 
him  to  go  to  de  debbil,  what  fer  he  take  'way 
de  only  one  what  could  save  him?  And  den 
he  went  outen  de  house  an'  kep'  walkin'  'n 
walkin',  all  day  out  in  de  fields,  by  hissef; 
don'  yer  recollec'  dat,  Sis'  Viney?  An'  so," 
he  went  on,  "I  'lows  dat  if  de  doctor  is  good 
way  down  in  his  heart,  he  ain't  gwine  to  be 
willin'  for  his  only  son  to  mah'y  de  daughter 
of  a  man  what  talks  'gin  'ligion.  No,  ole 
'oman,  I  reckin  you's  out  in  yer  kalklations 
fur  wunst." 

"Shucks!"  Aunt  Viney  ejaculated;  "don'  yer 
know  ef  Mas'r  Walter  Marlowe  want  ter  do 
anyting  he  gwine  ter  do  it;  an'  sides,  de  doc- 
tor he  tink  powerful  sight  o'  Honey;  an'  he 
do  anyting  fer  dat  boy." 

"Yes,"  consented  Uncle  Ben,  "Mas'r  Wal- 
ter, he  powerful  fine  young  gem'man,  but  his 
ma  and  all  his  folks'll  be  'gin  his  mahy'in  us 
what  ain't  got  no  money.  Why,  dere  ain't  no 
fambly  in  de  county  cep'n  what'd  be  proud 
to  hab  him  fur  dere  daughters." 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  17 

"Now  you's  hit  de  nail  on  de  head  at  las'," 
assented  the  practical  Viney;  "dat's  what  I 
'low  to  myself;  Mas'r  Walter's  ma,  she 
powerful  proud;    'deed  she  is." 

At  this  point  the  dialogue  was  cut  short  by 
the  report  of  a  rifle  from  the  direction  of  the 
river  which  was  hidden  from  view  by  the  thick 
spring  foliage,  and  towards  which  Laurie  had 
gone  a  few  minutes  before. 

Without  a  word  further  than  a  profane  ex- 
clamation from  Aunt  Viney,  both  started  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound.  Aunt  Viney  had 
soon  reached  the  bank  and  signaled  that  it 
was  all  right.  A  beautiful  white  bird,  called 
by  the  negroes  the  "white  heron,"  was  beat- 
ing his  snowy  wings  in  hopeless  conflict  with 
the  tide  which  bore  him  rapidly  down  the 
stream.  On  the  bank  also,  though  some  dis- 
tance away,  stood  the  tall,  lithe  figure  of  young 
Marlowe  concealed  partly  from  view  by  the 
thick  bushes.  He  was  busily  engaged  in  ex- 
amining the  lock  of  his  rifle  and  reloading  it 
for  further  use.  Laurie,  who  had  not  seen 
him,  stood,  wringing  her  hands  in  sympa- 
thetic pain,  as  she  watched  the  beautiful  creat- 


28  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

ure  float  down  the  stream,  with  the  death 
wound  in  its  breast.  She  had  not  dreamed 
that  any  one  was  near  (as  it  was  a  school- 
day  at  the  college  of  S — near  by)  until  the 
loud  bang!  made  her  look  up  from  her  ham- 
mock too  late  to  avert  the  tragedy.  At  a 
sign  from  his  master  a  large  brown  setter 
sprang  into  the  water,  seized  the  huge  bird, 
now  dead,  in  his  mouth,  and  laid  it  at  Lau- 
rie's feet.  The  young  fellow  in  the  mean- 
time, by  a  succession  of  leaps  from  rock  to 
rock,  had  also  gained  her  side,  and  ground- 
ing his  rifle  with  one  hand  pulled  off  his  cap 
with  the  other.  What  a  handsome  face  it 
was!  bright  and  smiling  now,  for  he  was  sure 
that  he  had  pleased  the  capricious  little  lady. 

"Look  what  I  have  shot  for  you,  Laurie !" 
pointing  with  his  cap  to  the  bird  at  her  feet; 
"you  said  you  wanted  a  white  wing  to  make 
a  fan  for  commencement  and — " 

"Oh!  you  bad  boy;  how  could  you  do  it?" 
she  exclaimed  with  a  little  sob,  and  refusing 
his  proffered  hand. 

"What!  you  don't  want  it?  Well,  by  Jove! 
ingratitude,  thy  first  name  is  Laurie!"  replied 
the  poor  fellow  crestfallen. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  ig 

"G'way  from  dar!  g'way  from  dar!" 
screamed  Aunt  Viney  from  her  position  in  the 
bushes,  as  the  dog  was  about  taking  the  bird 
in  his  mouth  again.  She  ran  to  it,  and,  kneel- 
ing down,  spread  the  large  white  wings  out 
upon  the  ground.  This  was  too  much  for 
Laurie;  she  had  long  wanted  just  such  a  fan 
as  these  beautiful  wings  would  make;  she 
would  not  have  had  the  peerless  white  thing 
murdered  for  her  for  worlds,  had  she  known 
it;  she  had  a  tender  little  heart,  that  loved 
every  living  thing  of  field  or  stream.  She 
looked  down  on  the  beautiful  plumage;  the 
bird  was  dead,  and  the  wings  were  so  lovely; 
she  began  to  relent. 

Walter  saw  his  advantage,  and,  leaning  his 
rifle  against  a  tree,  knelt  down  also,  and 
helped  Viney  to  display  the  trophy.  "Now!" 
he  exclaimed,  "cruel  woman,  how  does  that 
strike  you?  Aren't  they  handsome?"  She  was 
not  angry  now,  but  when  he  looked  up  at  her 
he  was  shocked  to  see  that  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  "O  Walter,  I  am  so  sorry  you  killed 
it,  but  it  was  very  kind  of  you  to  give  it  to 
me;   indeed  I  do  thank  you." 


20  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"Reck'n  I'll  jes'  take  it  up  to  de  house  and 
dry  out  de  wings  fur  yer,  Honey,"  remarked 
the  practical  member  of  the  party. 

"Yes,  you  can  go,  we  don't  want  you,"  said 
Walter.  "I  will  walk  back  with  Laurie  in  time 
for  dinner."  He  and  Viney  had  always  been 
the  best  of  friends;  she  would  let  him  say 
anything  to  her. 

"Nebber  min',  young  man,"  she  replied,  as 
she  shouldered  the  huge  bird  and  started  to- 
wards the  house.  "You's  jes'  de  wustest  boy 
in  dis  yere  town;  you  knows  you  is;  if  you 
don'  stop  dem  yere  larks  o'  yourn,  you  ain't 
nebber  gwine  to  heb'n   long  side  o'  yo'    pa." 

They  did  not  hear  her  "Yah!  Yah!"  after 
she  considered  herself  at  a  safe  distance; 
"Mas'r  Walter  de  purtiest  man  I  eber  see.  I 
hope  he  gwine  ter  mah'y  Honey'n  take  her  up 
to  his  big  house,  kase  I  don'  know  what 
gwine  ter  kum  o'  her  ef  her  pa  keep  goin'  on 
in  dis  yere  awful  way  o'  hisen;"  which  proves 
that  Aunt  Viney  was  something  of  a  woman 
of  the  world  in  her  way.  Could  she  have 
divined  what  took  place  after  she  left  them, 
she  would  have  considered  her  brightest  dream 
realized. 


CHAPTER  II 

Laurie  must  have  forgiven  the  young  fellow 
for  killing  the  bird,  for  they  were  strolling 
along  the  romantic  little  river's  brink  in  an 
amicable  way,  the  little  flickers  of  shadow 
and  sunlight  dancing  upon  them  as  they 
walked.  He  had  his  gun  over  his  shoulder 
and  the  brown  setter  Carlo  amused  himself 
by  running,  now  before,  now  behind  them, 
but  always  keeping  them  in  sight. 

"What  are  you  doing  out  of  college  to-day? 
I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  on  Friday;"  she 
asked  him,  trying  to  look  demure;  but  she 
could  not  hide  from  this  tall, handsome  fellow, 
as  she  looked  up  at  him,  that  she  was  glad 
to  be  surprised,  and  supremely  happy  to  have 
him  there  walking  beside  her,  when  so  many 
girls  as  pretty  as  she,  and  far  more  fortunate 
in  every  other  way,  would  have  welcomed 
him  proudly.  "O!  you  truant!"  she  went 
on,  while  the  happy  smile  danced  in  her  eyes, 
21 


22  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"I  thought  you  were  working  for  the  valedic- 
tory this  year;  you  know  too,  how  much  we 
all  counted  on  you;  have  you  given  up?" 

"Well;  sit  down  here  on  this  rock,  and  I 
will  tell  you  how  it  is,"  he  said  at  last.  She 
seated  herself  with  a  little  laugh  of  happiness, 
and  he  chose  a  lower  place,  so  that  he  sat  at 
her  feet,  for  he  wanted  to  see  her  face  while 
he  told  her.  He  looked  so  handsome  as  he 
sat  there,  leaning  towards  her,  in  his  eager 
way,  the  morning  sunlight  shining  in  his  face. 

A  brilliant  face  it  was,  with  the  clusters  of 
dark  hair  thrown  back  from  the  forehead,  and 
the  gleam  of  snowy  teeth  and  flashing  eyes. 
It  was  a  beauty  to  which  perfect  health,  per- 
fect happiness,  and  a  generous  heart  each 
lent  a  share.  There  was  one  thing  which  a 
friend  of  Walter  Marlowe  would  have  elimi- 
nated from  that  face,  but  which,  to  the  roman- 
tic young  girl  beside  him,  was,  perhaps,  its 
greatest  charm;  it  was  a  certain  look  of  reck- 
lessness, born  of  an  adventurous  spirit  and 
excessive  physical  courage,  which  won  cre- 
dence for  many  tales  of  midnight  escapade 
connected  with  his  college  life. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  23 

True,  there  had  never  been  a  hint  of  any- 
thing dishonorable  attached  to  his  name,  even 
in  his  wildest  frolics,  but  he  was  classed 
among  the  wild  fellows  of  the  college.  Per- 
haps the  town's  people  were  more  lenient  in 
their  judgment  of  him  than  of  the  others,  for 
he  had  lived  always  in  their  midst  and  was 
known  to  them  all  from  childhood.  .  He  had 
evidently  forgotten  what  he  was  going  to 
say;  he  sat  looking  into  her  face  in  such  an 
unusual  way  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  pres- 
ence, she  felt  her  cheeks  begin  to  tingle. 

"Well,"  said  she,  pulling  some  little  grasses 
in  a  nervous  way — "why  don't  you  tell 
me?" 

"O!  that's  so — well,  I  was  just  going  to 
say  that  the  honors  were  distributed  this 
morning,  and  a  lucky  fellow,  whom  you  know, 
has  come  in  for  the  valedictory;  so  there  isn't 
anything  more  to  do  at  the  college  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  thought  I  would  take  a  stroll,  and 
see  if  I  could  find  anything  to  shoot." 

"O!  Walter,  I'm  so  glad!"  cried  Laurie,  all 
her  self-consciousness  gone  now.  "Kneel 
down  here  and  be  crowned,  sir."    He  dropped 


24  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

on  one  knee  and  she  went  through  the  panto- 
mime of  crowning  him. 

They  were  laughing  and  talking  in  that 
happy ,  foolish  way  that  marks  so  brief,  so 
fleeting  an  epoch  of  life;  both  were  beautiful, 
young,  and  in  love. 

"Have  you  thought  of  your  valedictory 
speech?" 

"Oh !  yes,"  he  said,  "I  have  been  rehearsing 
it  as  I  came  along.  I  shall  get  through  it  all 
right  if  there  is  one  person  in  the  audience." 

"Rather  a  small  audience  otherwise,"  put 
in  Laurie. 

"And  if  it  pleases  her,  I  don't  care  for  the 
rest,"  he  went  on,  scorning  to  notice  the  in- 
terruption.    "Do  you  know  who  that  is?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  returning  to  her 
grasses  again. 

"She  will  be  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  house, 
and  she   will  carry  a  white  wing  for  a  fan." 

"Oh!  did  you  have  that  speech  rehearsed 
too?" 

"Of  course,  and  engaged  the  heron  to  come 
here  and  be  shot.  But,  Laurie,  there  is  some- 
thing else  on  my  mind  this  morning    a  great 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  2$ 

deal  more  important  than  that.  Come,  let 
us  walk  on  to  that  spot  further  down  where 
it  is  so  shady  and  cool,  and  I  will  tell  you 
about  it." 

Viney  thought  they  looked  very  handsome 
and  very  happy,  an  hour  or  two  later,  when 
she  looked  up  from  her  work  and  saw  him 
leave  her  at  the  garden  gate,  and  stop  again 
when  he  was  almost  out  of  sight,  to  blow  a 
kiss  to  her  from  his  finger  tips.  Laurie  stood 
still  and  watched  him  until  she  could  no 
longer  get  a  glimpse  of  his  figure,  and  then, 
all  in  a  minute,  down  came  a  flutter  of  pink 
muslin  among  the  husks  of  the  corn  Aunt 
Viney  was  preparing  for  dinner;  two  little 
white  arms  were  around  her  neck,  and  her 
darling's  love  story  was  sobbed  out  in  happy 
tears  upon  her  faithful  old  bosom. 

"Oh!  mammy!  Walter  loves  me;  he  loves- 
me  more  than  anybody  else  in  all  the  world! 
He  told  me  so,  and  I  am  going  to  marry  him 
on  commencement  day.  Oh,  mammy  dear, 
I  am  so  happy!     I  love  him  so  much." 

The  old  nurse  had  taken  her  darling  into 
her  arms,  and  patted  her  gently,  as  she  used 


2t)  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

to  do  to  hush  her  infant  crying.  She  was, 
herself,  too  full  to  speak,  for  a  moment. 
This  was  the  dream  of  her  life;  Honey  would 
be  happy  and  rich.  She  leant  over,  still  hold- 
ing Laurie  in  her  arms,  and  picked  up  the 
straw  hat  that  had  fallen  on  the  ground  and 
smoothed  out  the  ribbons  with  a  loving 
touch.  Then  she  tried  to  raise  the  dear  face 
from  her  shoulder.  The  girl  was  still  crying 
softly,  for  very  joy,  but  even  these  happy 
tears  pained  the  tender  old  heart. 

"Why,  what  make  you  cry  so,  Honey?  Ef 
you's  happy,  you  ought  to  be  laughin'.  I's 
powerful  glad  you's  gwine  to  mah'y  Mas'r 
Walter;  you'll  hab  lots  o'  purty  dresses,  an' 
breas'pins  to  war'  ebbery  Sunday,  an'  ole 
Viney'll  set  up  in  de  gal'ry  an*  watch  you 
sittin'  in  de  Marlowe's  pew.  Yo'  pa  he 
comin'  home  to  his  dinner  purty  soon  an'  he 
mustn't  find  his  baby  cryin'  nohow.  You 
jes'  run  'long  while  I  gits  de  dinner  ready  and 
bresh  out  yer  ha'r,  an'  tell  him  all  'bout  it, 
when  he  comes;  I  spec'  he  be  powerful 
proud." 

But  the  major  did  not  return  to  dinner  that 


A   MODERN    QUIXOTE  2J 

day;  supper  time  came — the  early  supper 
time  of  the  country  houses — and  as  he  was 
still  away,  they  took  the  simple  meal  with- 
out him.  It  was  not  unusual  for  him  to  re- 
main in  town  until  late  in  the  evening. 

Laurie  went  to  her  little  chamber  all  white 
and  flower-scented,  as  such  a  maiden's  room 
should  be,  but  she  did  not  go  to  sleep  as 
usual;  she  sat  down  on  the  side  of  her  snow- 
white  cot  in  the  fair  twilight  of  the  spring, 
her  dark,  glorious  hair  falling  about  her,  and 
dreamed  her  waking  dream,  more  sweet  than 
sleep  could  give.  While  sitting  there  she  was 
aroused  from  her  reverie  by  her  father's  foot- 
step sounding  in  the  room  below.  It  was, 
still,  quite  early  in  the  evening  and  her 
thoughts  would  not  let  her  sleep. 

She  threw  around  her  a  wrapper  of  some 
soft,  white  material  and  stole  quietly  down- 
stairs again.  She  paused  at  the  dining-room 
where  the  major  always  loved  to  take  his 
pipe  in  the  evening.  Uncle  Ben  had  brought 
in  the  candles  and  wheeled  the  master's 
leather  arm-chair  to  its  accustomed  place  by 
the  hearthstone;  for  the  nights   were  still   a 


28  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

little  chilly,  though  the  spring  was  well  ad- 
vanced. His  pipe  and  a  decanter  of  brandy 
stood  on  a  small  table  at  his  elbow.  He  had 
poured  out  a  glass,  but  scarcely  tasted  it. 
There  was  a  haggard  expression  on  his  hand- 
some,   dissipated  face    quite  new  to  Laurie. 

He  lit  the  pipe,  and  looked  around  once  or 
twice,  as  though  in  search  of  something  or 
some  one;  presently  the  fire  died  out  of  it, 
and  he  laid  it  down  upon  the  table  unfinished. 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  pipe  to-night? 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  brandy? 

She  must  have  known  what  it  was  he 
missed;  for  presently  her  arms  were  about 
him  and  a  warm,  rosy  cheek  was  laid  against 
his.  "Is  that  you,  Honey?"  he  asked  laugh- 
ing; and  reaching  up  an  arm  he  pulled  her 
down  into  his  lap. 

"Come  here  and  sit  on  your  old  daddy's 
knee,  and  tell  him  what  you've  been  doing 
all  day." 

Laurie  passionately  loved  her  father;  to 
blame  him  was  to  lose  her  favor  entirely,  and 
as  a  great  many  did  blame  him  very  severely, 
she  kept    aloof  from  a  great   many    houses 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  29 

where  she  would  have  been  welcomed  for  her 
mother's  sake,  but  where  she  knew  that  her 
father  was  not  liked. 

To  sit  on  his  knee,  and  get  her  arm  around 
his  neck  was  easy  enough;  she  was  used  to 
that;  but  to  tell  him  all  that  had  happened 
that  day  was  not  so  easy.  She  looked  into 
the  fire  for  a  moment  and  began  running  her 
hands  through  his  hair.  "Walter  was  here 
this  morning,  papa,"  she  began;  managing  so 
that  he  'could  not  see  her  face. 

"Well — that's  no  news,  tell  me  somethin' 
else." 

"Well,  he's  got  the  valedictory,  papa,  and 
he  gave  me  a  beautiful  wing — for  a  fan,  and 
he  wants  me  to  go  to  commencement- — papa 
— and  hear  him  speak." 

"Well,  Honey,  you  are  goin'  ain't  you? 
Walter's  a  fine  young  fellow;  I'm  glad  he's 
got  it." 

"Yes,  papa,  but  if  I  go,  you  must  get  me  a 
new  white  dress." 

"Well,  I'll  see  about  it,  pet,  I'll  see." 

"But,  papa,  I  must  have  it  soon,  for  mammy 
and  I  must  make  it  before  commencement." 


30  A   MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"Well  you  shall  have  it,  baby;  you  shall 
have  it." 

"But,  papa—" 

"Why,  what  ails  my  pet  ?  Is  there  somethin' 
else  you're  wantin'  ?  Speak  out,  Honey,  your 
old  daddy'll  do  anything  to  make  you  happy. 
There  won't  be  no  girl  there  that'll  hold  a 
candle  to  my  Laurie,  I'll  bet.  That'll  be  a 
great  day  for  you,  when  your  friend  gits  the 
first  prize,  eh?  You  always  did  bet  on  Wal- 
ter, didn't  you,  Honey?" 

"Yes,  dear,  it  will  be  the  greatest  day  of  all 
my  life,  for  it  will  be  my  wedding-day.  That 
pretty  white  dress  will  be  my  wedding-dress — 
for  Walter  loves  me,  oh!  so  dearly,  and 
asked  me  to  marry  him  on  that  day.  You 
won't  say  no,  dear  daddy?  I  love  him  so!  I 
love  him  so!" 

The  arms  went  closer  about  his  neck,  and 
the  rosy  face  was  pressed  hard  against  his 
shoulder. 


CHAPTER  III 

Aunt  Viney  was  right  when  she  opined  that 
"Mas'r  Walter's  ma"  would  be  the  stumbling 
block.  While  her  husband  loved  this  son,  as 
the  dearest  gift  of  providence,  she  idolized 
him,  but  still  she  worshiped  him  in  her  own 
proud  way.  Though  her  will  in  all  great 
crises  bent  before  the  stern  strength  of  purpose 
in  her  husband's  character,  still  she  was  a 
woman  of  strong  opinions,  strong  feelings  and 
prejudices.  Walter  was  her  only  living  child, 
and  would  inherit  through  her  an  independent 
fortune.  She  saw  that  he  was  handsome,  in- 
telligent and  spirited,  and  built  boundless 
hopes  upon  his  future;  consequently,  his  mar- 
riage would  be  a  matter  of  supreme  moment 
with  her.  She  believed  in  love  matches,  for 
her  own  had  been  one.  Had  she  not  taken 
her  own  course  when  the  young  preacher 
wooed  her  in  his  manly  way,  showing  towards 
her  the  tenderness  of   his   steadfast  spirit,  so 

31 


32  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

stern  in  self-denial,  so  impervious  to  all  other 
weakness?  What  did  it  matter  that  he  had 
renounced  fortune  and  lucrative  occupations 
for  his  high  calling?  She  revered  his  sublime 
unworldliness  but  never  dreamed  of  reaching 
the  level  of  it  herself;  she  could  not  have 
said  truthfully  that  she  desired  it.  And  this 
woman  looked  proudly  on  her  manly  son,  so 
like  herself,  and  yet  was  blind  enough  to 
think  that  she  could  mold  his  will  to  hers,  and 
tell  him  where  to  love. 

She  was  proud  of  his  popularity,  proud  of 
his  scholastic  honors,  and  the  old  name  he 
bore,  and  what  more  natural  than  that  he 
should  make  a  brilliant  marriage?  But  with 
all  this  deep  love  between  mother  and  son, 
there  was  a  shade  of  habitual  reserve,  im- 
parted, perhaps,  from  her  own  nature  to  his, 
which  barred  out  many  little  confidences  that 
might  have  aroused  her  from  this  dream  of 
security. 

In  the  meantime  he  ran  his  college  course, 
much    as    any  of    his    young    acquaintance. 

She  laughingly  told  a  friend  one  day,  that 
she  was  glad  to  say  her  boy  "had  not  thought 


A   MODERN   QUIXOTE  33 

about  the  girls  yet."  She  was  sure  that  when 
he  entered  society  in  earnest  he  would  select 
some  aristocratic  girl  for  his  wife,  who  would 
reflect  credit  on  his  taste  and  family.  And  so 
the  fond  mother  built  her  palace  of  cards,  sit- 
ting in  her  darkened,  flower-scented  chamber 
this  spring  day,  while  Walter  and  Laurie  told 
their  story  to  each  other  by  the  vine-shaded 
river-path. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  had  never  quite  forgiven  Ruth 
Hargrave  for  marrying  so  far  out  of  her  sta- 
tion, but  they  had  been  good  friends  in  their 
young  days,  and  the  survivor  felt  always  a 
kindly  interest  in  Ruth's  little  daughter;  but 
the  major,  with  his  loud  voice  and  terrible 
grammar,  was  a  trying  ordeal  for  the  fastid- 
ious woman  to  endure  for  an  hour.  Laurie, 
morbidly  sensitive  where  this  dear  old  father 
of  hers  was  concerned,  divined  this  feeling 
and  gradually  ceased  making  her  visits  there. 

Walter  thought  he  knew  the  tender  secret 
of  her  absence.  The  old  doctor  often  looked 
over  his  spectacles  and  asked  why  she  never 
came,  but  the  mother  said  nothing.  She  was 
far  indeed  from  suspecting  a   present  danger, 


34  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

but  it  was  part  of  her  plan  that  the  intimacy 
between  her  son  and  the  major's  daughter 
should  not  survive  his  boyhood;  and  she  felt 
that  fate  was  playing  into  her  hand.  She 
thanked  her  good  star,  and  kept  silent,  for 
she  dreaded,  as  she  dreaded  nothing  else,  the 
stern  reproach  that  would  gather  in  her  hus- 
band's eyes  when  the  expression  of  such  a 
feeling  would  sometimes  escape  her. 

Walter  came  to  her  this  day,  a  happy  smile 
illumining  the  beauty  of  his  face,  and  there 
was  great  tenderness  in  the  way  this  tall  boy 
bent  down  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 
He  sat  down  beside  her,  took  both  her  hands 
in  his  and  told  her  his  heart's  story;  told  her, 
in  his  own  eloquent  way,  how  he  loved  the 
beautiful  girl  with  all  the  strength  of  his  nat- 
ure, and  that  he  could  never  be  happy  with- 
out her.  "I  meant  to  tell  you  this,  mother," 
he  went  on,  "before  I  spoke  to  her;  but  I  saw 
in  her  pretty  eyes  this  morning  how  glad  she 
was  of  my  success;  she  looked  so  sweet  in  her 
enthusiasm  about  it,  that  almost  before  I 
knew  it  I  told  her  all." 

This  was  true,  he  had   meant    to  tell  her, 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  35 

but  put  it  off,  as  one  will  an  unpleasant  task, 
as  long  as  possible.  He  had  expected  oppo- 
sition at  first,  for  he  knew  the  nature  of  his 
mother's  plan  for  him;  but  he  was  not  pre- 
pared for  the  look  of  anger  that  gathered  in 
her  eyes  as  she  heard  him.  She  withdrew 
her  hands  from  his  clasp,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  and  folded  them  firmly  in  her  lap, 
while  she  listened  in  silence. 

Then  he  saw  how  foolish  had  been  his  hope 
that  she  would  put  by  her  ambitious  dreams, 
when  she  saw  how  deeply  his  happiness  was 
centered  in  Laurie.  He  saw,  before  she  poke, 
that  he  would  never,  by  all  his  pleading  or  all 
her  love  for  him,  be  able  to  win  her  from  her 
enmity  against  his  marriage  with  Marshall 
McNaughton's  daughter.  He  felt  the  chill 
of  her  disapproval,  and  his  eager  enthusiasm 
vanished;  he  resented  it  for  Laurie's  sake. 

He  paused  and  looked  at  her  a  moment  full 
in  the  eyes;  each  saw  the  determination  of 
the  other — how  like  they  were  at  that  mo- 
ment. 

"Go  on;'7  she  spoke  for  the  first  time;  her 
face  was  pale  with  suppressed  anger. 


36  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

He  straightened  himself  in  his  chair,  and  in 
an  altered  tone  told  her  curtly  and  in  a  few 
words  that  his  choice  was  unchangeable;  that 
he  had  hoped  she  would  consider  his  happi- 
ness sufficiently  to  lay  aside  any  prejudice  she 
might  have  in  the  matter,  and  receive  the 
motherless  girl  kindly;  but,  that,  anyhow, 
his  troth  was  plighted  to  Laurie  and  his  hap- 
piness as  well  as  his  honor  depended  upon 
his  keeping  it — at  any  cost. 

"You  have  disappointed  me  bitterly,"  was 
all  she  said  as  she  gathered  her  sewing  to- 
gether and  left  the  room.  Such  an  ending  to 
such  a  day!  He  knew  what  it  meant;  his 
father  would  be  on  his  side,  and  she  would 
submit  to  the  inevitable  and  receive  his  wife, 
—he  knew  that;  but  it  would  be  with  that  im- 
mutable protest  in  her  heart  and  in  her  man- 
ner; and  how  could  he  bring  that  tender- 
hearted child  to  such  a  home? 

He  went  out  of  the  house  with  a  bitter  re- 
sentment in  his  heart  against  his  mother;  she 
who  had  been  so  indulgent  to  his  every  whim, 
and  so  devoted  to  his  interest  always,  now  in 
this  first  great  need  had  failed  him.      The  re- 


A   MODERN    QUIXOTE  37 

action  from  his  joy  of  the  morning  was  horri- 
ble. 

After  an  hour's  aimless  wandering  in  the 
woods  he  came  to  a  decision.  As  his  anger 
began  to  cool  he  reflected  that  he  had  not 
been  very  considerate,  perhaps;  the  revelation 
had  surprised  her;  he  would  make  one  more 
earnest  effort  to  reconcile  her,  and  induce  her 
to  receive  LaUrie  kindly. 

But  it  was  as  he  thought;  his  father  listened 
gravely  to  his  story,  and  said  that  if  he  truly 
loved  the  girl,  and  she  loved  him,  it  was  right 
in  the  sight  of  God,  that  he  should  marry  her; 
but,  though  the  mother  said  nothing  further 
in  protest,  and  even  went  to  see  Laurie  and 
conformed  to  all  the  conventionalities  of  ap- 
proval, Walter  knew  that  in  her  heart  she  was 
embittered  against  his  choice,  and  would  not 
forgive  the  girl  who  had  won  her  son  from  her. 
He  determined  that  Laurie  should  not  know 
of  this,  if  it  was  in  his  power  to  prevent  it; 
and  trusted  to  fate. 

It  was  not  hard  for  him  to  hide  anything 
from  Laurie.  Walter  loved  her;  that  was 
enough   and   she  was   too  happy  to  question 


38  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

anything.  And  as  for  the  major,  that  any 
man  should  win  his  little  girl  was  in  his  eyes 
a  thing  to  be  thankful  for;  it  never  occurred 
to  him  that  there  was  anything  that  one  could 
object  to  in  that. 


CHAPTER  IV 

If  Marshall  McNaughton  had  succeeded  in 
blinding  himself  to  the  progress  he  had  made 
on  the  downward  road  in  C —  during  the  past 
few  years,  his  eyes  were  opened  the  morning 
after  Laurie's  revelation  when  he  rode  into 
town  and  proceeded  to  purchase  the  white 
dress  he  had  promised. 

His  loving  heart  was  vacillating  between 
sympathy  writh  her  great  happiness,  and  grief 
at  losing  her.  Memories  of  her  young  mother 
were  mingled  with  his  thoughts  of  Laurie; 
and  as  he  rode  along  the  familiar  road,  with 
slackened  rein,  tears  from  the  purest  spring 
in  the  nature  of  this  anomaly  of  a  man,  rose 
to  his  eyes  and  blotted  the  well-known  land- 
scape from  his  sight. 

Old  "Senora,"  the  mare,  took  her  head  with 

an  eas}'  pace  and  brought    up  at  "Hartley's," 

as  the   place   containing  the  best    bar-room 

was  called.   To  do  the  major  credit,    he    had 
39 


40  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

not  intended  to  stop  there  this  morning,  but 
his  thoughts  were  far  away  in  other  days,  and 
so  long  as  Senora  had  stopped,  expecting  her 
noonday  siesta  and  her  customary  meal  at  the 
racks  before  the  Hartley  stables,  he  thought 
he  would  just  step  in  and  have  a  word  with 
the  convivial  fellows  sure  to  be  gathered  there. 

He  was  not  disappointed  in  his  expectation 
of  finding  several  boon  companions  of  his  for- 
mer revels  lounging  idly  about  the  place.  Mar- 
shall McNaughton  was  a  man  of  magnificent 
presence,  more  than  six  feet  high,  and  though 
he  bore  the  marks  of  years  of  dissipation  in 
many  ways  upon  him,  still  wore  a  command- 
ing air,  and  created  a  sensation  always  when 
he  entered  a  room.  His  heavy  locks,  consid- 
erably frosted  with  silver,  framed  a  face  still 
handsome  and  engaging. 

He  paused  at  the  doorway,  as  magnificent 
a  figure  of  a  man  as  ever  walked  to  ruin  under 
its  portal.  The  graceful  sweep  of  a  large  felt 
sombrero  shaded  his  face;  and  he  held  a  heavy 
riding  whip  (merely  from  habit)  in  his  hand; 
had  a  lash  of  one-half  the  weight  been  laid 
upon     Senora   in   his    sight,   it    would   have 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  41 

brought  a  quick  and  terrible  reckoning  with 
her  master.  He  loved  many  men,  hated  a 
few,  but  his  devotion  to  his  daughter  and  his 
horse  was  this  man's  religion. 

All  rose  and  gave  him  the  seat  of  honor. 
The  clink  of  glasses  went  merrily  round 
again,  and  after  not  "a  few,"  but  many  drinks 
he  told  himself  he  was  better  able  to  execute 
the  delicate  commission  for  which  he  had 
come  to  town. 

He  did  not  remember  that  it  had  been  quite 
a  while  since  he  had  attempted  to  make  a 
purchase  in  C —  outside  of  "Hartley's,"  and 
the  unstinted  liberality  of  the  proprietor  there 
could  have  been  read  between  the  lines  of 
numerous  notes  of  hand  which  were  piled  up 
in  the  money  drawer  with  the  major's  signa- 
ture upon  them.  Some  said  that  it  was  a 
thing  that  might  happen  whenever  it  so 
pleased  this  complacent  creditor,  for  his  old 
house  and  all  its  belongings  to  be  put  up  and 
sold  at  auction  any  day  before  his  eyes. 

The  story  had  already  become  known  to 
the  small  commercial  world  of  C — ,  and  when 
he  entered  the    principal  store    of  the  town, 


42  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

and  in  an  off-hand  way  ordered  the  hand- 
somest and  most  expensive  articles  that  could 
be  bought— little  Laurie  should  have  the  best; 
why  not? — he  was  ignominiously  refused  them, 
unless  he  could  pay  for  them  on  the  spot. 

To  be  refused  credit  in  the  South,  in  a  town 
where  you  have  lived,  is  an  insult,  deep  and 
degrading.  It  came  upon  this  man  like  light- 
ning from  the  blue  sky;  it  showed  him  with 
terrible  vividness  many  things  that  he  had 
been  vaguely  conscious  of  but  had  never 
forced  himself  to  look  upon  before.  He  stag- 
gered beneath  the  blow.  He  repeated  the 
effort  in  several  other  stores  in  the  town,  with 
like  results;  and,  as  the  summer  evening  was 
closing  in,  he  mounted  Senora  and  turned 
towards  home,  cut  to  the  heart,  both  by  the 
indignity  he  had  suffered  and  his  failure  to 
keep  his  promise  to  Laurie. 

It  was  not  yet  quite  sunset,  and  he  could 
reach  home  before  dark.  He  thought  of  how 
she  would  be  watching  for  him,  and  speed 
down  the  aveune  to  meet  him,  when  she 
fancied  she  heard  the  old  mare's  hoofs  ap- 
proaching; she  would    always   put    her  little 


A   MODERN    QUIXOTE  43 

foot  on  top  of  his  in  the  stirrup  and  bring  her 
lithe  young  body  up  to  his  level  with  a  single 
spring;  then,  with  her  arms  about  him,  give 
him  a  welcoming  kiss. 

He  had  always  felt  here  was  one  being  in 
the  world  in  whose  sight  he  held  the  place 
of  honor.  But  his  eyes  were  opened  now  and 
his  thoughts  were  bitter  against  himself  as 
he  rode  homeward  in  the  light  of  the  closing 
day.  He  had  meant  to  do  so  well  by  little 
Laurie,  and  what  had  he  done  ?  The  veil  had 
been  ruthlessly  torn  from  his  conduct,  and  he 
had  to  face  some  hard  questions  which  his 
conscience  was  putting  to  him  as  he  returned 
from  his  fruitless  errand,  a  ruined  man — he 
saw  it  at  last,  broken  in  spirit  and  crushed  in 
self-respect. 

"Yes,"  he  accused  himself — "I  have  spent 
her  fortune,  and  humiliated  her  all  these  years 
in  the  eyes  of  C — .  In  the  first  important 
crisis  of  her  life,  I  have  not  been  able  to  make 
the  most  necessary  provision  for  her;"  and,  for 
the  first  time,  he  felt  to-day  that  her  loving 
greeting  would  pain  him;  he  could  not  bear 
to  meet  her  with  this   feeling   so  strong  upon 


44  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

him;  he  halted  abruptly  in  the  road,  and 
turned  the  mare's  head  in  another  direction; 
he  made  an  errand  of  some  kind  in  the  neigh- 
borhood that  would  keep  him  until  he  sup- 
posed she  would  be  safely  in  bed. 

But  that  was  unnecessary;  for  the  first  time 
his  little  girl  had  not  been  watching  for  him; 
she  had  at  last  found  thoughts  which  he  did 
not  share. 

He  would  not  see  her  to-night ;  he  would 
put  it  off  till  to-morrow,  at  least;  it  would 
be  easier  then.  He  lingered  until  the  even- 
ing was  far  spent,  and  the  household  asleep, 
and  then  entered  his  house  crushed  and  dis- 
spirited. 

The  question  of  the  dress  was  not  broached 
the  next  morning;  Laurie  had  thought  he 
would  bring  it,  and  felt  just  a  little  shade  of 
disappointment,  but  she  was  too  happy  to 
worry  about  it  this  morning;  Walter  was  com- 
ing to  take  her  for  a  horseback  ride,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  with  anticipation,  when  she  ran 
into  the  breakfast  room  and  gave  him  his 
morning  kiss. 

She  seated  herself  opposite  him  with  a  little 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  45 

air,  very  new  and  very  womanly,  and  poured 
out  his  coffee;  but  she  soon  began  to  chatter 
away  in  her  old  childish  manner,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  she  noticed  that  he  was 
making  but  a  very  poor  pretense  of  eating; 
she  noticed  that  his  face  was  pale  and  haggard 
and  had  a  depressed  look  altogether  new  to 
her. 

She  dropped  her  knife  and  fork  in  an  instant 
and  was  at  his  side.  "Oh!  papa,  dear,  what 
makes  you  look  so  white  and  miserable?"  the 
quick  tears  coming  into  her  big  dark  eyes;  "I 
have  been  happy  all  this  time  while  you  have 
been  in  trouble — I  am  a  cruel,  selfish  thing! 
Dear  me" — this  sotto  voce — "I  reckon  I  have 
been  too  happy;  I  was  afraid  I  was;"  then, 
after  a  moment,  "but  I  won't  do  it  any  more 
— no,  indeed."  He  could  not  bear  this;  he 
rose  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window;  she 
stood  irresolute  for  a  moment  not  knowing 
whether  to  cry  or  not — then  followed  him. 
He  had  his  face  turned  from  her;  he  could 
not  bear,  with  this  new  sense  of  humiliation 
upon  him,  to  look  at  her.  Her  loving  trust  in 
him  was  now  a  reproach  that  touched  him 
to  the  quick. 


46  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

She  pressed  her  cheek  against  his  sleeve 
and  waited;  still  he  could  not  look  at  her, 
and  tell  her  how  low  he  had  fallen  in  the  eyes 
of  his  fellow  men.  He  hoped  sHe  would  not 
ask  him  about  the  wedding-gown  until  he 
could  think  of  some  expedient  by  which  he 
could  raise  sufficient  money  to  buy  it.  He 
tried  hard  to  think  of  something  to  say  to 
her,  and  could  not. 

"Dear  daddy,  are  you  angry  with  me?" 
came  in  little  sobbing  tones  at  last.  This  was 
too  much — in  a  moment  he  had  told  her  all; 
how  he  had  tried,  and  failed,  to  keep  his 
promise  to  her;  cursing  his  own  folly  in  that 
he  had  failed  to  do  a  father's  part  by  her. 

Then  the  smile  shone  through  the  tears, — 
was  that  all  ?  She  put  her  hands  lovingly  upon 
his  lips,  and  would  not  let  him  upbraid  him- 
self. She  charmed  away  the  evil  spirit  in 
him,  and  even  now,  true  to  his  mercurial 
nature,  the  crisis  being  past,  his  spirits  began 
to  rebound;  and  he  ended  this  extraordinary- 
interview  by  saying : 

"But  don't  you  spoil  your  pretty  eyes  acryin' 
'bout  it,  pet;  we'll  have  a  bonny  weddin'  yet." 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  47 

To  make  her  smile,  that  was  his  aim  always, 
and  he  managed  to  assume  something  of  his 
old  manner.  "Who's  that  yonder?"  he  said, 
taking  her  face  beween  his  hands  and  turning 
it  toward  the  avenue — "canterin'  up  the  road 
leadin'  t'other  black  horse?  Wonder  who  he's 
after?"  His  simulated  cheerfulness  imposed 
upon  her,  and  she  went  off  comforted,  but 
he  found  the  problem  of  ways  and  means 
harder  than  any  he  had  ever  undertaken  be- 
fore. He  paced  the  walk  until  the  morning 
sun  was  near  its  noon,  and  still  he  saw  no 
way  out  of  his  dilemma. 

Happily,  however,  another  council  was  in 
secret  session  on  the  same  subject,  and  it  was 
more  successful  in  coming  to  a  verdict. 

Aunt  Viney  was  scraping  potatoes  at  a  high 
shelf  just  outside  the  kitchen  door,  and  Uncle 
Ben,  in  his  position  of  maid  of  all  work,  to 
which  he  had  descended  by  slow  degrees,  was 
scouring  knives  on  a  flat  rock  which  served 
for  a  doorstep. 

"  'Pears  to  me,  Sis'  Viney,  de  major's  got 
sumpin  in  his  mind  lately,"  he  remarked.  "I 
ain't  h'yearn  him  swar  more'n  wunst  or  twicet 


48  A   MODERN    QUIXOTE 

since  he  came  from  town  yistiddy;  an'  I  'low 
to  myself  he's  takin'  on  kase  Honey  be 
gwine  away  befo'   long." 

"Humph!  chile;  he  got  heap  o'  'tings  'sides 
dat  on  his  min'.  I  tell  yer,  he  feel  powerful 
bad  kase  he  ain't  got  no  land  nor  niggers  nor 
nuffin  to  give  her,  de  day  what  she  gits  mar' d, 
like  all  white  folks  does — all  de  folks  what's 
quality.  Honey,  she  don'  kere  nuffin  'bout  it, 
kase  she  ain't  nebber  been  nowhar  'mong 
udder  gals;  'n  Mas'r  Walter,  it  don'  make  no 
diffunce  to  him;  he  say,  'Nebber  min',  sweet- 
heart, all  mine's  gwine  ter  be  yo's  purty 
soon;'  an'  he  don'  let  on  how  bad  his  ma  feel 
'bout  it.  I  tell  yer  Mis'  Marlowe's  powerful 
proud — 'deed  she  is!" 

Uncle  Ben  finished  his  knives  and,  setting 
himself  down  in  the  kitchen  door  in  the  sun, 
fell  into  a  deep  study.  After  sitting  silently 
for  some  time,  he  cleared  his  throat  several 
times  and  finally  said: 

"Sis'  Viney!" 

"Humph?"  To  understand  this  responsive 
interrogation,  one  must  have  heard  it. 

"'Pears  to  me  Mars'  Marsh  he  need  some 
money  powerful  bad." 


A   MODERN    QUIXOTE  49 

"I  spec'  he  do,  Unc'  Ben;  but  I  don'  know 
whar  he's  gwine  to  git  none  at."  Silence 
again  for  a  few  minutes,  then  in  the  same 
tone — 

"Sis'  Viney." 

"I  hear  yer,  Unc'  Ben;"  she  knew  what  he 
was  going  to  say;  it  had  been  in  her  thoughts 
all  day,  too. 

"Don'  it  'pear  to  you  like  'taint  correspond- 
in'  like  to  hab  niggers,  when  he  so  poor,  till 
he  caint  buy  no  weddin'  clo'es  fur  Honey?" 

"It  cert'ny  do  'pear  kin'  o'  onsuitable,Unc' 
Ben." 

"Jes'  me  an'  you;  dat's  all  dat's  lef,  ole 
'©man." 

"I  know  it,  Unc'  Ben." 

"Well,  which  one  it  gwine  ter  be,  Sis'Viney 
— you  or  me?" 

"It's  in  de  Lawd's  han'  I  reckon, Unc'  Ben," 
was  her  only  reply  to  this.  She  was  so  busy 
about  the  fire  that  he  could  not  get  a  glimpse 
of  her  face. 

"Well,  I  bin  stud'n  'bout  it  powerful  heap  to- 
day," continued  the  old  man,  "an'  I  'lows  its 
jes' like  dis;  we  mus'n'tsay  nuffin'  'tall  'bout 


50  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

it  to  Honey;  fur  ef  she  knows  what  wuz  gwine 
on,  she  take  on  so,  till  she  jus'  break  her 
heart,  and  ourn  too;  but  we's  jis'  got  to  'cide 
'tween  ourse'ves  which  one  us  got  to  go,  and 
den  we'll  lay  de  case  befo'  de  major.  He'll 
cuss  de  nigger  blue  what  'poses  it,  fur  he  ain't 
gwine  ter  like  de  idee;  but  I  tink,  fur  Honey's 
sake,  he  do  mos'  anyting;  an'  ef  we's  got  to 
be  sol',  mought  jes'  as  well  be  now,  when  de 
money  do  Honey  some  good,  as  fur  to  wait 
fur  de  sheriff,  and  you  knows  dat  gwine  ter 
happen  fo'  long." 

This  was  hard  sense,  Aunt  Viney  had  to 
admit,  but  how  was  she  going  to  talk  about 
any  scheme  that  might  separate  her  from  her 
baby?  The  wisdom  of  the  plan  had  been 
patent  to  her  mind  a  long  time,  but  as  to 
which  of  them  it  should  be,  that  could  be 
seen  at  a  glance,  she  thought;  how  could  any- 
thing go  on  about  the  place,  and  most  of  all, 
what  would  Laurie  do  without  her?  She  put 
the  case  thus  before  her  "feller  sarvint,"  but 
it  seemed  he  had  entrenched  himself  behind 
an  argument  equally  as  powerful. 

"Well,  it  'pears  kin'  o'  dis  way  ter  me,"  he 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  51 

said;  "when  Honey  go  to  lib  wid  de  Marlowes 
she  hab  a  whole  passel  o'  niggers  to  wait  on 
her;  but  ef  ole  Ben  go  'way  who  gwine  ter 
stay  wid  mas'r?  an'  what's  gwine  to  cum  o* 
Snorer?  Any  fool  nigger — cep'n  me — what 
cum  nigh  her  she  kick  'emhigher'n  a  kite  sho 
nuff;  an'  who  gwine  ter  go  'long  and  bring 
mas'r  home  safe  o'  nights  when  he  stay  in 
town  late?" 

So  they  talked  and  talked,  the  matter  get- 
ting farther  and  farther  from  a  settlement,  un- 
til at  last  it  was  decided  to  appeal  to  chance, 
the  god  which  in  his  heart  every  darkey  holds 
in  superstitious  awe  but  thinks  may  sometimes 
be  propitiated;  and  accordingly  an  old  bat- 
tered "seb'n-pence"  was  fished  up  from  Uncle 
Ben's  trousers'  pocket  where  he  had  long 
carried  it  for  luck,  and  they  prepared  to  toss 
for  it, 

Aunt  Viney  demurred  again;  the  coin  that 
was  supposed  to  have  brought  luck  to  its  owner 
so  long  would  certainly  do  so  again  and  she 
demanded  fair  play.  This  was  settled,  how- 
ever, by  his  allowing  her  to  choose  sides,  a 
privilege  also  supposed  to  bring  fortune;   and 


52  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

unconscious  of  the  sublimity  of  their  act  they 
prepared  to  invoke  the  irrevocable  fiat,  for 
neither  would  have  dreamed  of  appealing 
from  the  verdict. 

Uncle  Ben  solemnly  turned  the  worn  bit 
of  silver  over  and  over  in  his  hand  and  scru- 
tinized it  on  both  sides;  it  was  invested  with 
a  new  interest — it  was  to  decide  his  fate. 

With  bated  breath  they  stepped  out  on  the 
little  plateau  under  the  mulberries  where  the 
grass  had  been  worn  away  by  the  faithful  feet 
of  these  two  old  servants,  and  Uncle  Ben  began 
to  choose  his  ground;  Aunt  Viney  looking  on  in 
awed  silence.  The  stake  for  which  they 
played  was  a  few  more  years  of  toil  and  pri- 
vation on  the  dear  old  place,  where  every 
homely  object  was  a  shrine  at  which  their 
fond  hearts  worshiped;  and  the  privilege  of 
spending  their  allotted  years  in  the  service  of 
those  for  whose  sake  they  would  even  go,  if  it 
should  be  their  lot,  uncomplaining.  Aunt 
Viney  had  chosen  "heads."  By  tacit  consent 
both  stood  silent  and  gazed  at  the  familiar 
scene  where  their  lives  had  been  spent,  taking 
in  every  detail  with  its  associations  of  more 
than  half  a  century. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  53 

Down  there  on  the  old  swamp  road  Uncle 
Ben  had  taught  "Honey"  and  Honey's  mother 
to  ride  on  horseback.  Over  here  went  the 
path  by  which  he  had  led  the  old  Senora  to 
water  night  and  morning  for  so  many  years. 
Over  there  to  the  west  lay  the  fields  where 
he  had  labored  in  the  cotton  rows  side  by  side 
with  Tuny  of  the  lustrous  eyes.  Ah !  those  old 
days  when  cotton  was  king!  Then  the  nights 
when  the  moon  was  full,  and  the  dance  before 
the  cabin  doors — for  Tuny  with  the  yellow 
skin  and  speaking  eyes  was  belle  of  the  quar- 
ters,— poor  old  Tuny,  dead  and  buried  long 
ago. 

Aunt  Viney  looked  longest  towards  the  spot 
where  a  willow  stood  sentinel  over  some 
quiet  graves.  There  lay  the  young  "Miss," 
the  idol  of  her  life,  where  they  had  laid  her 
down  before  the  dark  days  came.  Like  a 
white  thread  over  the  green  hill  ran  the  track 
her  feet  had  made  as  she  led  her  darling's  little 
daughter,  night  and  morning,  to  her  mother's 
grave.  Then  she  could  see  the  little  path 
branch  off  towards  another  enclosure,  almost 
invisible  now  to  the  dim    old  eyes,  where  the 


54  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

faithful  servants  of  the  family  rested  from 
their  toils  and  some  of  her  own  little  picka- 
ninnies slept  their  long  sleep.  It  was  their 
world,  their  all,  how  could  they  leave  it? 

The  sun  sank  below  the  hills.  The  curtain 
was  down  upon  the  closing  act,  and  the  last 
of  the  actors  must  disperse.  With  a  sigh  that 
was  almost  a  moan  they  came  back  to  the 
present.      The  old  man  proceeded  to  toss. 

"Now  she's  gwine!"  he  said  in  an  excited 
whisper,  and  up  went  the  coin,  flashing  an 
instant;  down  it  came  again  through  the 
leaves  overhead,  and  lay  upon  the  ground  a 
few  feet  from  them.  They  looked  into  each 
others'  faces  a  moment  while  their  hearts 
stood  still  with  fear,  then  knelt  down  to  read 
their  fate. 

The  worn  outline  of  head    lay   uppermost. 

Without  a  word,  the  old  fellow  picked  up 
the  coin  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  taking 
his  old  straw  hat  from  the  ground,  turned 
and  walked  away  towards  the  stables. 

"  'Fore  Gawd!"  was  Aunt  Viney's  only  re- 
mark, as  she  remained  stupefied,  on  her 
knees,  and    looked  after  his  retreating  figure. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  $$ 

The  bitter  tears  shed  by  that  fond  old  heart 
as  he  hid  his  face  in  the  mare's  silky  mane 
and  clasped  his  arms  around  her  neck,  none 
but  "Snorer"  knew,  and  she  could  never  tell. 


CHAPTER  V 

The  major  received  the  old  darkey's  propo- 
sition much  as  Uncle  Ben  had  expected;  nor 
was  the  ultimate  result  other  than  that  he  had 
foreseen.  Here  was  another  blow  to  that 
pride  to  which  until  two  days  ago  the  master 
had  held  so  firmly.  This  man  had  known  for 
a  long  time  that  he  was  giving  ground,  though 
he  had  parried  the  strokes  of  his  enemy,  cir- 
cumstances, desperately,  and  refused  to  ad- 
mit to  himself  that  he  was  being  beaten; 
but  now,  by  a  little  turn  of  the  blade,  he  was 
disarmed,  and  after  his  experience  in  town 
that  day  he  had  no  heart  to  resist  longer. 

He  listened  to  the  old  negro's  words;  and 
low  as  it  made  him  seem  in  his  own  sight, 
this  proposition,  which  a  week  ago  he  would 
have  scorned,  showed  him  an  outlet  from  the 
wall  of  difficulties  that  seemed  closing  around 
him;  and  swearing  at  first  that  he  would  never 
listen,  he  surrendered  to  it  at  last. 
56 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  57 

This  thought  of  selling  the  old  negro,  who 
was  part  of  the  inheritance  left  to  Laurie  by 
her  mother,  lowered  him  more  in  his  own 
eyes  than  any  act  of  his  erratic  life  which 
had  made  it  necessary;  and  yet  the  motive 
which  actuated  him  in  it  arose  from  the 
purest  instinct  of  his  nature — his  passionate 
love  for  his  little  daughter.  What  imperfect, 
what  unjust  judges  of  ourselves  we  are,  after 
all! 

It  was  a  hard  task  to  bring  himself  to  con- 
sent to  this,  the  only  available  means  that 
he  could  see  for  raising  even  the  small 
sum  of  money  necessary  to  provide  for  his 
Laurie's  wedding,  but  when  it  was  decided, 
it  gave  him  some  little  feeling  of  pleasure  to 
think  she  would  not  be  humiliated,  anyway. 
She  should  have  the  prettiest  white  dress  in 
the  town,  and  what  was  one  more  pang  of 
self-reproach,  one  more  bitter  memory  added 
to  his  long  account,  compared  to  the  mortifi- 
cation and  disappointment  he  had  felt  was  in 
store  for  her?  After  all  he  thanked  God  it  was 
old  Ben's  thought  not  his;  and  he  took  a 
drink  of  brandy  twice  the  usual  size. 


$8  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

To  keep  up  appearances  for  the  little  one's 
Sake  until  she  was  honorably  married,  that 
Mras  all  he  asked;  beyond  that,  with  a  sort  of 
*atal  premonition,  he  would  not  look. 

He  made  himself  no  idle  promise  of  refor- 
mation in  his  ways;  he  knew  he  would  not 
change  for  the  better  now.  There  was  a  reck- 
lessness added  to  his  former  hilarity,  which 
no  one,  perhaps,  but  the  two  old  darkies,  no- 
ticed; who  were  thankful  when  they  saw  it 
that  their  darling  was  provided  for. 

Thus  the  drama  swept  on  to  its  denouement 
with  its  deep  under-currents  of  love,  duty, 
sacrifice,  bearing  on  to  its  destination  the 
little  rose-colored  sail  that  carried  Laurie 
"and  her  fortune."  The  girl,  in  the  mean- 
time, pure,  and  loving  even  to  the  old  trees 
under  which  she  had  played,  lived  uncon- 
scious of  the  dark  shape  that  waited  on  her 
footsteps.  Walter  loved  her — that  was  enough. 

She  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  that  she 
did  not  want  the  new  dress;  she  had  been 
selfish,  she  told  herself,  to  distress  poor 
"daddy"  about  it.  There  was  still  a  remnant 
of  old    finery    in   a  chest   in    the    attic  which 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  59 

would  do  very  well;  Aunt  Viney  and  she 
would  rip  off  the  lace,  and  with  its  help  re- 
adorn  the  remains  of  some  fabric  which  had 
seen  previous  service.  What  did  it  matter? 
Had  not  Walter  said  it  made  no  difference? 
It  had  been  no  new  thing  for  her  father  to 
promise  her  the  most  preposterous  things  in 
all  good  faith  and  forget  the  circumstance 
entirely;  she  hoped  it  would  be  so  now,  and 
seeing  his  embarrassments,  resolved  to  say 
nothing  more  about  the  matter. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  avoided  the  topic 
religiously  and  trembled  for  fear  she  should 
suspect  the  plot  between  old  Ben  and  himself, 
and  in  her  loving,  impulsive  way  put  an  end 
to  it. 

She  had  risen  early  one  morning  and,  en- 
sconced in  her  favorite  position,  was  working 
industriously  on  a  sketch  which  had  occupied 
much  of  her  time  of  late  when  Walter  was 
not  by;  it  was  a  sketch  of  this  spot  so  dear 
to  the  lovers'  hearts,  and  she  intended  it  as  a 
parting  gift  to  her  father.  Through  unfore- 
seen events  the  work  was  never  completed  and 
the  world  has  missed  the  opportunity  of  pass- 


60  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

ing  on  its  merits.  It  was  supposed  by  many 
to  be  a  representation  of  an  Arctic  explorer's 
fleet  under  full  sail 

But  what  did  it  matter?  Nature  was  in  its 
springtide  on  the  earth,  and  in  her  heart, 
what  did  she  want  from  art?  Leave  that  great 
consoler  for  the  dear  faded  old  mam'selle  for 
whom  youth,  beauty  and  love,  are  over. 
How  could  she  work  on  such  a  morning  with 
all  the  glad  sights  and  sounds  of  summer 
claiming  her  eyes  and  ears?  It  was  indeed  a 
rarely  beautiful  spot,  this  trysting  place;  the 
water  there  was  clearer  and  the  shade  more 
dense  and  cool  than  in  any  other  place  in  all 
the  world,  they  thought;  and  to  one  of  them 
afterwards,  in  great  misery,  the  scene  came 
out  on  the  dark  ground  of  the  present  with 
heart-breaking  vividness. 

Gradually  the  charm  of  the  scene  began  to 
work  upon  her,  the  book  slid  from  her  lap 
and  the  old  reverie  took  empire  in  her  thought 
again. 

There  was  just  one  little  canker  spot  in  the 
flower  of  her  great  joy;  she  suspected  that 
Walter  had  some  trouble   upon  his  mind,  but 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  6 1 

she  had  not  been  able  to  fathom  it;  he  had 
come  to  her  looking  pale  and  anxious  some- 
times of  late,  but  always  laughed  her  questions 
away.  He  could  not  bear  that  she  should 
know  the  state  of  his  mother's  feeling  towards 
her.  He  had  wounded  her  in  her  most  sensi- 
tive spot,  her  ambition  for  him.  It  was  a 
source  of  great  pain  to  Marlowe,  for  he  loved 
this  handsome,  stately  mother  with  a  deep 
devotion. 

Poor  little  Laurie  had  never  felt  comfortable 
in  his  mother's  presence  and  instinctively 
shrank  from  the  ceremonious  visits  of  the  elder 
woman;  it  was  not  hard  therefore  to  deceive 
her  in  the  matter  and  when  Walter  told  her 
that  he  wished  the  engagement  kept  secret 
for  awhile,  and  the  wedding  to  be  a  private 
one,  she  thought  it  was  out  of  consideration 
for  her  own  circumstances,  and  gratefully  ac- 
quiesced. He  felt  now  that  he  had  been  pre- 
cipitate in  asking  her  to  marry  him  on  his 
graduation  day;  he  should  have  won  his 
mother  first. 

He  loved  Laurie  too  dearly,  however,  to 
risk  wounding  her    by  a  suggestion  of    delay. 


62  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

In  the  meantime,  he  guarded  the  affair  from 
the  knowledge  of  his  classmates,  who  knew 
that  he  had  always  been  friends  with  the 
major's  pretty  daughter  but  suspected  noth- 
ing more.  As  for  Laurie — a  Southern  girl 
teeps  her  love  secrets  well.  He  clung  still 
lo  a  gossamer  thread  of  hope  that  his  mother 
Would  consent  to  receive  his  wife  kindly.  He 
knew  that  she  was  prejudiced ;  that  she  visited 
the  sins  of  the  father  upon  the  child;  and 
there  were  moments  when  he  fought  against 
a  dull  feeling,  almost  of  hatred  of  this  man 
who  had  dragged  his  daughter  from  the  posi- 
tion that  should  have  been  hers,  and  thus 
stood  between  him  and  his  perfect  happiness. 
It  was  this  feeling  that  clouded  his  brow 
sometimes  when  he  saw  how  tenderly  devoted 
she  was  to  the  old  father;  but  he  could  not 
breathe  a  word  of  it  to  her;  she  would  have 
resented  it  deeply,  he  knew. 

And  thus  the  days  passed  on  until  Mar- 
lowe's graduation  was  but  a  few  weeks  off. 
The  major  had  kissed  his  daughter  more  fondly 
than  ever  that  morning,  and  started  to  town 
as  usual;   but  when  his  foot  was  in  the  stirrup, 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  6  J 

he  stopped,  and  turning  to  her  again  patted 
her  on  the  head,  and  taking  her  under  the 
chin  in  a  playful  way,  raised  her  face  to  his 
and  looked  long  and  lovingly  into  her  eyes. 
Yes,  it  was  a  beautiful  face,  all  dimpled  with 
smiles  now,  for  she  was  happy.  Her  father 
seemed  more  like  his  old  self  this  morning,  his 
depression  seemed  banished  by  magic. 

True,  he  had  not  done  his  duty  by  his  daugh- 
ter, as  the  world  said,  this  self-indulgent,  easy- 
going man;  he  had  squandered  the  fortune 
which  should  have  been  hers,  but  he  was  mak- 
ing for  her  sake  to-day  a  sacrifice  of  his  pride, 
and  he  alone  knew  what  it  cost  him.  To  vol- 
untarily sell  an  old  negro  long  resident  on  the 
place,  was  an  act  which  brought  much  hard 
criticism  generally  on  the  master. 

He  mounted,  and  old  Senora  was  soon  out 
©f  sight  for  she  could  travel  well  still.  He 
turned  at  the  last  bend  in  the  road  and  waved 
his  hand  to  her;  she  watched  him  out  of  sight. 
In  the  last  glimpse  she  had  of  him,  he  was 
Looking  back  at  her  again.  With  all  his  delin- 
quencies toward  her,  Laurie  knew  that  her 
father  had  loved  her  well.    It  was  this  knowl- 


64  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

edge  that  made  her  troubles,  when  they  came, 
so  much  harder  to  bear.  It  was  Saturday, 
and  she  knew  Walter  would  come  soon;  her 
mind  was  full  of  little  rose-colored  plans  for 
the  future. 

Presently  she  saw,  first  the  dog,  then  the 
master,  coming  toward  the  rendezvous.  That 
was  the  way  he  always  came,  sometimes  with 
a  Virgil  sticking  out  of  his  pocket,  sometimes 
with  a  gun  over  his  shoulder,  according  to 
which  proved  at  the  time  the  best  excuse  for 
his  ramble. 

Walter  proposed  a  picnic  and  a  gipsy  fire 
under  the  trees,  and  all  went  merrily  until  he 
innocently  remarked  that  it  was  a  sort  of  ir- 
regular sale-day  in  the  town  and  as  his  father 
had  gone  in  early,  and  his  mother  was  visit- 
ing friends  some  miles  away,  he  was  free  to 
spend  his  day  with  her.  He  was  bent  down 
in  a  comical  effort  to  blow  some  sticks  into  a 
blaze.  Struck  by  her  sudden  silence,  he 
looked  up  at  her,  fanning  the  air  wildly  with 
his  hat  to  get  the  smoke  from  before  his  eyes. 
She  was  standing  pale  and  motionless;  an 
agony  of  fear  had  seized  her  heart. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  65 

He  sprang  up  in  an  instant  and  put  his  arm 
around  her.  "What  is  it,  darling?"  he  asked 
anxiously.  The  look  on  her  face  alarmed  him; 
she  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  he  had 
never  seen  on  her  face  before.  "Oh,  Walter," 
she  said  solemnly,  earnestly,  laying  one  hand 
upon  his  arm,  "I  would  not  speak  of  this  to 
any  one  but  you;  you  have  just  reminded  me 
that  this  is  a  sale-day  in  town,  and  I  know 
my  poor  father  will  meet  those  terrible  men 
who  make  him  drink.  It  frightens  me  so,  to 
think  of  his  coming  home  late  at  night  alone 
when  he  has  been  drinking.  I  have  no  one 
to  go  to  but  you — dear  Walter,  won't  you  go 
and  stand  by  him  and  bring  him  home 
safely  for  my  sake?  Sometimes  I  have  been 
able  to  keep  him  at  home  on  these  terrible 
sale-days,  but  I  was  so  happy  this  time  I 
did  not  remember  and  now  I  have  let  him 
go." 

Here  the  great  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
she  clung  to  him  pitifully.  She  looked  so 
beautiful,  so  pure  and  sweet  in  her  distress 
for  this  erring  father,  that  all  that  was  finest, 
all  that  was  best,  in  this  generous,  but  far 
5 


66  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

from  perfect  young  man  arose  to   meet  her 

trust  and  fulfill  it. 

"I  will  go,  dear,"  he  said  softly,  drawing 
his  arms  closer  about  her;  "but  don't  cry, 
Laurie;   I  can't  bear  that,  indeed  I  can't." 

"But  oh,  Walter,  won't  you  go  now,  this 
moment?  He  is  so  good  and  yielding, they  will 
make  him  drink  again,  I  know  it." 

"I  will  go  at  once,"  he  answered  her  proudly, 
a  bright  light  flashing  from  his  eyes,  "and  I 
will  convince  him  that  I  am  his  friend  for 
your  sake,  and  one  to  whom  he  can  entrust 
you.  Don't  worry  about  it  any  more,  dear, 
for  I  am  going  to  be  your  protector  now. 
Look  up,  Laurie" — for  she  had  hidden  her 
face  in  shame  and  sorrow  on  his  shoulder — 
"and  smile  at  me,  and  say  you  trust  me."  She 
did  smile — a  little  tremulous  smile  through 
her  tears — and  he  folded  her  to  his  heart  and 
kissed  her  passionately  again  and  again.  She 
had  never  seemed  so  dear  to  him  as  now, 
when  she  appealed  to  him  for  help. 

"And  now,  darling,  that  is  better,"  he  said 
after  a  little,  for  he  knew  that  to  do  any  good 
he  must  be  gone.     "I'll    be  the   oak  and  yoa 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  67 

be  the  k/y>  eh?  Never  fear;  I  will  be  with 
him,  and  it  will  be  all  right." 

"Oh,  Walter,  if  you  will  be  his  friend,  I 
will  never  doubt  that  you  love  me." 

"Then  farewell,  my  lady  fair,  I  go  to  do 
thy  bidding,"  he  said  laughing,  and  dropped 
upon  one  knee  kissing  her  hand  to  carry  out 
his  knight  errant  part.  She  was  looking  quite 
content  again,  and  smiled  upon  him.  Walter 
was  so  strong  and  manly — 'Walter  loved  her 
so  truly!  what  had  she  to  fear  now? 

"But  don't  you  go  anywhere,  nor  speak  to 
any  one  else,  nor  do  anything  all  day,  but 
think  about  me,  or  I'll  consider  myself 
cheated,"  he  called  back  to  her.  "Remember 
I  only  leave  you  to  look  after  your  father — 
our  father, I  mean."  What  would  he  not  mean 
to  please  her? 

"Leave  Carlo  to  keep  me  company  then," 
she  said;  "he  often  comes  and  spends  the 
whole  day  with  me  when  you  are  away — don't 
you,  Carlo?"  The  dog,  who  was  running  from 
one  to  the  other  in  doubt  which  way  his  duty 
lay,  wagged  his  tail  in  complete  acquiescence 
of  anything,  he  did  not  care  what. 


68  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"All  right,"  said  Walter,  looking  at  Carlo 
and  waving  his  hand  slightly  toward  Laurie; 
meaning  that  she  was  in  his  charge  until  the 
master  should  return;  "you  can  hold  him  as 
a  hostage  for  the  safe  return  of  your  father; 
he  is  the  dearest  thing  I  could  leave  you."  He 
patted  the  beautiful  creature  on  the  head  and 
went  slowly  from  them.  He  returned  home- 
ward by  the  river-path  and  in  less  than  a  half 
hour  was  on  horseback  and  on  his  way  to 
C— . 

He  longed  to  do  this  little  service  for  the 
girl  he  loved  as  ardently  as  any  belted  knight 
ever  longed  to  display  his  lady's  colors  on  the 
battle  field. 

She  heard  the  distant  sound  of  his  horse's 
flying  feet  and  now  he  was  gone;  just  as  the 
other  had  gone  from  her  that  day,  with  a  kiss 
upon  her  forehead  and  fond  words  upon  his 
lips. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  public  square  in  the  town  of  C —  pre- 
sented a  busy  appearance  on  this  Saturday 
afternoon  in  June,   1856. 

The  auction  crier  was  standing  on  a  plat- 
form and  the  sales  of  the  day  had  just 
drawn  to  a  close,  when  Marlowe  rode  up  on 
horseback  and  halted  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd.  Presuming  that  the  object  of  his 
search  would  be  found  here,  he  dismounted 
and  threw  his  bridle  to  a  little  black  urchin 
who  came  up,  with  a  flash  of  white  teeth  re- 
vealed in  a  broad  grin  at  the  prospect  of  a 
lucrative  job,  and  entered  the  throng. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  the  major  not 
there,  but  an  event  had  just  then  transpired 
which  put  his  errand  out  of  his  mind  for  the 
moment.  The  epidemic  of  merriment  showed 
that  something  unusual  had  occurred.  Mar- 
lowe inquired  of  a  townsman  what  the  matter 
was,  and  as  soon  as  the  fellow  could  command 


70  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

his  voice  he  told  him  that  "that  —  cuss  Hank 
Staples  had  just  bought  a  nigger,"  and  lapsed 
into  his  paroxysms  of  laughter  again.  Just 
*then  he  spied  old  Ben  sitting  disconsolately 
on  a  bench  in  the  background  shaking  his 
nead  and  talking  to  himself.  It  was  he  who 
nad  been  sold  to  Hank  Staples. 

Marlowe  could  not  understand  it;  after  a  few 
words  with  the  auctioneer,  he  crossed  over 
to  the  old  darkey  and  laid  a  hand  kindly  upon 
his  shoulder. 

Uncle  Ben  raised  his  head,  and  a  look  of 
rapture  came  into  his  eyes  when  he  saw  who 
it  was.  Walter  had  come  to  be  associated 
with  his  own  folks  in  the    old  fellow's  mind. 

"Glory  to  Gawd!  am  dat  you,  Mas'r  Wal- 
ter?" he  cried,  and  poured  out  the  tale  of  his 
woe;  he  belonged  "to  the  trash."  Walter 
stood  there  and  heard  the  whole  pitiful  story 
rehearsed;  the  desperate  circumstances  of  the 
McNaughtons,  this  last  resource  to  which  they 
had  been  driven;  it  revealed  a  depth  of  neces- 
sity of  which  even  he  had  been  entirely  igno- 
rant. He  was  not  surprised  then  that  the 
major  had  absented  himself    from  the  scene. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  71 

He  wished  that  he  had  been  a  little  earlier, 
he  would  have  bought  the  old  negro  at  almost 
any  price;  how  pleasant  it  would  have  been 
to  tell  Laurie  that  her  old  Ben  would  still  be 
hers;  for  he  knew  how  she  would  take  his 
loss  to  heart.  He  was  meditating  a  plan  by 
which  he  might  still  treat  with  Mr.  Staples 
and  buy  him  back. 

It  would  cost  him  something  though  to  ap- 
proach the  despised  upstart  in  an  amiable 
way.  The  story  had  more  than  once  reached 
his  ears,  that,  presuming  on  his  convivial  re- 
lationship with  the  major,  the  parasite  had 
dared  lift  his  eyes  to  the  major's  daughter. 
To  a  certain  side  of  Marshall  McNaughton's 
nature  Hank  Staples  appealed,  but  it  was  the 
worst  side;  and  he  would  sooner  have  seen 
his  little  girl  in  her  grave  than  that  the  fellow 
should  ever  say  a  familiar  word  to  her.  The 
idea  simply  never  occurred  to  him  that  such 
a  thing  could  be  thought  of;  and  Hank,  in 
the  meantime,  had  often  spoken  of  her  as  his 
sweetheart.  Nothing  but  his  respect  for  her 
name  had  kept  Marlowe  s  hand  from  the  fel- 
low's collar  many  times  when  that  name  had 


72  A    MODERN   QUIXOTE 

been,  in  the  most  casual  way,    upon  his  lips. 

The  young  man  was  standing  beside  Uncle 
Ben,  meditating  upon  the  affair,  with  any- 
thing but  an  amiable  expression  of  face,  when 
it  was  proposed  that  all  should  adjourn  to  the 
nearest  bar-room,  which  proved  to  be  "Hart- 
ley's." 

"Hartley's"  was  a  place  of  that  type  at 
which  the  two  classes,  the  respectable  com- 
moner and  the  upper  ten,  made  their  nearest 
approach  to  affiliation.  The  chasm  that 
divided  them  irrevocably,  was  narrower  here 
than  elsewhere,  and  although  one  seldom 
stepped  from  the  one  side  to  the  other,  they 
would  often   here   shake  hands  across  it. 

It  is  obvious  what  an  attraction  such  a  place 
would  possess  for  the  younger  men  of  the 
town;  and  it  became,  consequently  the  bete 
noir  of  the  heads  of  the  college  of  S — ,  which 
was  situated  in  the  suburbs  and  under  whose 
walls  assembled  daily  the  scions  of  the  best 
families  in  the  state.  The  most  strenuous 
rules  were  fixed  against  the  students  resorting 
thither  at  all,  but  these  soon  became  Dracon- 
ian laws,   too    hard  to   be  fulfilled.      So,  the 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  73 

president  and  the  faculty,  though  they  still 
considered  "Hartley's"  a  thorn  in  the  flesh, 
were  forced  to  compromise  the  matter,  and 
the  older  fellows  knew  that  a  Saturday  even- 
ing spent  in  that  convivial  company  would 
not  be  brought  up  against  them,  if  their 
studies  were  not  interfered  with  in  conse- 
quence. 

It  was  already  getting  toward  evening  when 
Marlowe  entered;  he  had  expected  to  meet 
his  companions  there  in  the  evening,  and  he 
made  it  a  point  to  avoid  the  appearance  of 
his  real  errand.  A  brilliant  company  had 
already  assembled,  and  there,  surrounded  by 
an  admiring  group,  sat  the  major  talking  his 
noisiest.  The  young  man,  who  watched  him 
to-night  with  a  new  interest,  thought  that  he 
had  purposely  worked  himself  into  this  state 
of  feverish  hilarity  for  a  purpose ;  at  any  rate, 
he  had  fully  embarked  on  a  sea  of  glory  in 
which  he  promised  to  be  submerged  before 
long;   that  was  clear. 

Marlowe  greeted  him  casually  and  turned 
to  where  some  friends  were  talking  at  an  open 
window,  and  joined    them;  still    keeping    an 


74  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

unobserved  espionage  upon  him,  however.  To 
urge  him  to  return  home,  would  have  been, 
at  this  juncture,  like  oil  to  the  flames,  he  re- 
flected, and  so  the  only  thing  was,  simply,  to 
keep  him  in  sight;  in  that  way  he  could  at 
least  fulfill  his  promise  to  Laurie,  and  take 
him  home  safe — if  not  sober. 

A  reinforcement  to  the  merry  party  soon 
arrived  in  a  detachment  of  the  college  boys 
off  for  their  Saturday  holiday.  They  were  all 
classmates  of  Marlowe's,  and  would  graduate 
in  a  few  weeks.  It  was  understood  that,  in 
a  way,  this  would  be  their  last  night's  fun  to- 
gether; they  would  disperse  after  commence- 
ment to  their  homes  in  various  parts  of  the 
Southern  states. 

They  were  the  members  of  an  organization 
connected  with  their  college,  similar,  I  sup- 
pose, to  those  that  exist  in  all  such  institu- 
tions. The  object  being  simply  to  have  fun, 
as  a  relief  from  the  routine  of  study ;  and  band- 
ed together  in  order  to  accomplish  that  end 
more   effectually. 

It  began  in  the  same  way  as  so  many  of 
those  secret  societies  in  the   South,   which  in 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  J$ 

war  time,  and  in  the  "reconstruction"  period, 
assumed  so  much  importance  in  the  eyes  of 
the  new  government — namely,  in  a  project  to 
enjoy  themselves,  and,  by  a  pledge  of  mutual 
support,  to  protect  themselves,  in  some 
measure,  from  the  chastisement  of  the  faculty. 
This  particular  clan  had  been  organized  sev- 
eral years  before  by  a  senior  class,  and  handed 
down  to  each  succeeding  one,  until  it  had 
grown  to  be  a  time-honored  institution  among 
the  students.  It  was  considered  a  mark  of 
distinction  for  a  stranger  to  be  admitted;  for 
the  very  essence  of  the  thing  depended  upon 
a  certain  point  of  honor. 

It  was  stipulated  in  the  initiation  formula 
that  each  member  should  pledge  his  most 
sacred  honor  to  maintain  a  strict  secrecy  con- 
cerning anything  that  might  occur  when  they 
were  on  any  escapade  together.  If  any  mem- 
ber should  be  charged  with  a  misdemeanor, 
he  was  to  keep  silent,  whether  innocent  or 
guilty,  and  the  others  to  do  likewise,  so  as  to 
baffle  detection  of  the  culprit.  Nothing  more 
was  apprehended  than  a  breach  of  college 
rules  and  the  vengeance  of  the  faculty. 


76  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

Hitherto,  the  plan  had  been  eminently 
successful,  and  it  was  the  proud  boast  of  the 
order  that  not  a  man  had  ever  been  induced, 
under  any  hard  circumstances,  to  break  the 
oath;  one  young  fellow  even  suffered  expul- 
sion from  college,  when  suspicion  had  fallen 
upon  him,  rather  than  speak  on  a  particular 
occasion;  and  he  was  promptly  canonized 
in  the  memory  of  the  order. 

For  several  days  after  the  idea  of  this  new 
club  was  conceived,  the  students  had  assumed 
a  very  promising  attitude  of  studiousness  over 
the  open  pages  of  their  Horace  and  their 
Euclid,  while  they  were  racking  their  brains 
to  find  a  name  which  would  be  both  original 
and  applicable.  At  last  one  night  when  lights 
were  out,  and  the  devotees  of  learning  were 
supposed  to  be  resting  after  their  arduous 
tasks,  one  bright  genius  of  the  class  an- 
nounced that  he  "had  it!"  the  clan  should 
be  called  the  "Order  of  the  Mid-knights," 
a  name  significant  of  the  chivalrous  intentions 
of  the  order,  and,  also,  of  the  hour  at  which 
they  would  generally  hold  their  seances.  This 
inspiration  was  hailed  with  as  much  enthusi- 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  77 

asm  as  was  compatible  with  the  necessity  of 
speaking  under  their  breath,  and  the  title  was 
adopted. 

The  management  of  the  college  had  made 
many  efforts  to  disband  the  "M.  K's,"  hoping 
as  each  succeeding  class  graduated  and  left 
the  institution,  it  would  be  prevented  from 
entering  again;  but  all  to  no  avail;  the  first 
thing  they  knew,  the  prize  scholars  of  the 
class  would  be  seen  with  the  irrepressible  in- 
signia, the  magical  "M.  K.",  engraved  on  ring 
and  stud. 

One  president,  a  Dr,  Williams,  had  put  his 
hand  to  the  plow  and  endeavored  to  root  out 
the  evil;  an  evil  the  more  formidable  in  that 
this  oath  of  secrecy  had  grown  through  suc- 
cessive generations  to  be  considered  a  sacred 
trust,  a  sort  of  pledge  of  honor,  that  any  man 
would  have  considered  it  dire  disgrace  to  vio- 
late; he  threatened  to  expel  from  the  college 
every  young  man  refusing  to  abandon  the 
order.  The  result  was  that  almost  the  entire 
class  announced  their  intention  to  leave.  And 
so  the  worthy  president  found  that  his  con- 
stituency would  not  back  him  up.    He  offered 


78  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

his  resignation  in  dignified  umbrage;  the 
trustees  accepted  it  and  the  students  remained. 
So  the  matter  stood  when  the  class  of  Walter 
Marlowe — the  class  of  1856 — entered  on  its 
career,  and  never  had  the  "M.  K's"  promised 
to  be  more  troublesome.  Young  Harry  Napier 
— the  son  of  that  Judge  Napier  who  now  sat 
upon  the  bench  of  the  supreme  court  of 
Georgia,  was  chosen  chief  for  the  year;  and 
it  was  generally  expected  that  the  escapades 
of  the  class  would  reach  their  maximum  un- 
der his  reign.  He  and  Marlowe  were  the  best 
of  friends,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the 
smile  that  lit  up  this  charming  young  fellow's 
face  when  he  saw  Walter,  on  entering  Hart- 
ley's with  a  half  dozen  other  students  and 
"M.  K's." 

Walter  was  the  Beauclerc  of  the  class,  and 
they  all  were  proud  of  him;  he  knew  that 
Harry  had  been  far  more  delighted  when  the 
honors  of  the  year  fell  to  his  friend  than  if 
he  had  won  them  himself;  in  fact,  he  would 
have  been  surprised  if  any  one  had  suspected 
him  of  wishing  for  them;  said  he  did  not  go 
in  for  that  sort  of  thing  himself.      This  mad- 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  79 

cap  had  always  said  that  Marlowe  was  his 
better  self — no  one  else  had  ever  exercised  so 
much  influence  over  him.  He  was  in  his 
lightest,  merriest  mood  this  evening,  and  ral- 
lied Walter  on  his  sober  looks. 

Pretty  soon  he  discovered  the  major;  and 
nothing  ever  pleased  him  quite  so  much  as  to 
listen  to  the  witty  stories  and  Mexican  rem- 
iniscences that  prevailed  when  the  veteran 
was  in  the  humor  for  them.  The  young  fel- 
low's inimitable  laugh  rang  out  every  now 
and  then,  and  Walter  knew  that  both  the  ora- 
tor and  the  listener  were  taking  more  wine 
than  was  customary  among  the  students. 

Soon,  however,  the  scene  changed;  the 
major  stopped  short  and  muttered  something 
under  his  breath;  it  sounded  like  a  curse,  but 
Walter  could  not  hear  the  words.  Then  in 
walked  Hank  Staples — who  had  never  been 
countenanced  here  but  under  Major  McNaugh- 
ton's  wing, — with  Uncle  Ben  at  his  heels.  He 
evidently  felt  a  right  to  make  free  among  gen- 
tlemen because  he  had  "bought  a  nigger." 

The  situation  dawned  upon  the  old  slave's 
former  master  at  once,   and  he   sat  staring  at 


80  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

the  new-comers  in  a  stupefied  way,  his  brow 
contracted  into  a  heavy  frown,  and  the  half 
emptied  glass  still  grasped  in  his  hand;  but 
instantly  on  observing  that  he  was  attracting 
attention,  he  turned  the  conversation  again 
into  its  former  channel.  He  would  not  look  in 
the  old  negro's  direction,  and  he  drank  more 
heavily  and  more  recklessly  after  that.  The 
conversation  soon  became  general,  and  he 
soon  lost  all  sense  of  soreness  in  the  general 
conviviality — apparently. 

Mr.  Hank  Staples  was  a  conspicuous  mem- 
ber of  that  old  branch  of  the  population  in  the 
South  so  well  known  as  the  "po'  white  trash," 
a  grade  from  which  a  man  rarely,  if  ever, 
emerged;  however,  as  I  say,  he  had  certain 
characteristics  which  gave  him  the  entree  to 
Hartley's,  where,  for  the  time  being,  he  made 
more  or  less  free  with  his  acquaintances. 
Though  ten  years  younger  he  had  "fit  long 
side  o'  Major  McNaughton  in  the  Mexican 
wah;"  and  somehow  the  major  had  always 
been  his  friend. 

He  was  also  something  of  a  wag  and  told 
a  good  story.   So,  like  the  king's  jester  of  "ye 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  8l 

olden  time,"  he  was  privileged  to  say,  virt- 
ually, whatever  he  pleased  at  the  expense  of 
any  one  present;  no  self-respecting  man  would 
resent  it,  unless  the  offense  should  be  very 
marked.  He  gained  a  precarious  living,  one 
scarcely  knew  how,  consequently,  the  sur- 
prise of  all  when  he  stepped  up  and  bid  a 
price  for  the  old  negro. 

One  of  the  company  evidently  had  not 
digested  the  phenomenon  yet,  for,  during  a 
little  lull  in  the  cross-fire  which  was  kept  up 
between  Mr.  Staples  and  different  members  of 
the  company,  he  broke  in  with,  "Say,  Hank! 
what  the  devil  did  you  buy  that  old  nigger  for 
anyhow?  He'll  die  on  your  hands  before 
Christmas." 

"Well,  that's  just  what  I  bought  him  for," 
replied  Hank  with  a  chuckle. 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  chorus,  "what  does 
the  fool  mean  by  that?" 

"Wall,  it's  jest  this  way,  gentlemen,"  con- 
tinued he,  nothing  abashed,  "you  see  I  haven't 
ever  owned  a  nigger,  and  a  man  caint  git 
inter  good  'ciety  till  he   has   niggers    o'  some 

sort." 
6 


82  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"That's  so,  Hank,"  said  some  one  after  the 
general  outburst  had  subsided,  "you  struck 
the  keynote  then,  but  what'll  you  do  when 
the  old  fellow  dies — and  you  won't  have  either 
nigger  or  your  money?" 

"Wall,  now,  I  reck'n  that's  jest  what  I'm 
layin'  fur,  gentlemen.  I'm  goin'  to  engage  a 
place  for  him  in  the  nigger  graveyard  here  in 
town  and  have  him  buried  by  the  Meth'dis 
chache  when  he  dies;  you've  alius  been  a 
good  Meth'dis  hain't  you,  Unc'  Ben?"  he 
called  over  his  shoulder. 

"Yes,  sah !  I  is,  bress  Gawd !"  responded  the 
old  darkey,  from  his  place  in  the  rear  of  the 
party,  the  weary  look  on  his  face  brightening 
a  little  at  the  thought  of  the  posthumous 
honors  that  awaited  him. 

"Well,  then,  yer  see,"  continued  Mr.  Sta- 
ples,"when  Unc'  Ben  dies,  I'm  agoin'  to  have 
him  buried  in  town,  and  have  the  chache  bells 
tolled  fur  his  funeral;  and  when  the  people  is 
all  settin'  'roun'  the  squar'  some  un'll  say, 
*Hello!  who's  that  gittin'  buried?  I  hain't 
h'yearn  o*  nobody's  dyin'.'  Then  some  un 
else'U  say  in  a  kind   o'   off-hand  way:      'Oh! 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  $3 

that's  one  o'  Mr.  Hank  Staples'  niggers,'  so, 
you  see,  I'll  be  a  durned.aristocrat  arter  that.'' 
They  all  laughed  heartily  at  this  unique  plan, 
Uncle  Ben  (who,  it  must  be  confessed,  was 
cheering  up  under  the  influence  of  Bourbon 
and  sugar,)  heartiest  of  all.  Harry  Napier 
thought  the  joke  deserved  recognition,  and 
they  all  had  their  glasses  refilled.  After  that 
Mr.  Staples — slave-holder,  and  aristocrat 
elect,  began  a  sparring  match  with  the  major 
on  eld  Mexican  days,  and  they  prevailed  upon 
him  (the  major) — who  had  a  grand  voice — to 
sing  them  a  song.      He  sang   with  fine  effect: 

"  The  guns  had  hushed  their  thunder, 
The  drums  in  silence  lay; 
When  came  the  senorita, 

The  maid  of  Monterey,"  etc. 

During  the  singing,  Uncle  Ben  was  worked 
up  into  an  ecstasy  by  the  melody,  and  after 
swaying  from  side  to  side  for  a  minute  or  two 
began  also,  singing  a  song  in  the  same  key, 
but  with  a  widely  different  import  from  the 
other: 

*'  A  charge  to  keep  I  has, 
A  God  to  glorify: 
A  nebber  dyin'  soul  to  sabe, 
And  fit  her  fur  de  sky." 


84  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

The  occurrence  did  not  harmonize  with  the 
convivial  scene.  A  dead  silence  followed  the 
voice.      Many  felt  the  unconscious  rebuke. 

"Shut  up,  you  old  black  Meth'dis!"  cried 
Hank  Staples,  "or  I'll  knock  yer  two  eyes 
inter  one." 

"I  wish  yer  would,"  whined  Uncle  Ben, 
"an'  knock  my  brains  out  too;  fur  I  heap 
ruther  be  dead  than  ter  b'long  to  you.  I'se 
got  a  nebber  dyin'  soul  as  good  as  yourn  an* 
I'se  hones'  an'  squar' ;  an'  I  kin  read  de  Bible, 
and  say  de  Lawd's  prar,  an'  dat's  more'nyou 
kin  do,  if  you  is  my  marster."  Uncle  Ben's 
heart  prompted  the  thought;  Bourbon  and 
sugar  spoke  the  words.  Hank  Staples  struck 
him  on  the  mouth,  but  if  he  had  intended  to 
repeat  the  blow  he  could  not,  for  he  was 
seized  by  Marlowe,  and  was  on  the  floor  in 
an  instant. 

"You  dare  to  strike  that  old  man,  you  low- 
lived cur!"  he  muttered  between  his  clenched 
teeth,  "and  you  will  have  to  deal  with  me." 

The  young  man's  hand  was  at  his  throat, 
and  his  knee  on  the  pigeon-breast  of  the 
"trash."  It  was  the  last  touch  to  his  long  pent 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  85 

animosity,  and  before  he  knew  it,  his  temper 
took  fire.  He  knew  how  the  old  negro  was 
loved  by  Laurie,  and  that  blow  was  too  much. 

Major  McNaughton  had,  also,  half  arisen 
from  his  chair,  his  brow  dark  and  threatening; 
but  Marlowe  had  no  sooner  given  way  to  his 
anger  than  he  felt  the  imprudence  of  it;  per- 
haps he  felt  a  little  ashamed  to  attack  any- 
thing so  low  and  mean;  and  he  thought  also 
that,  with  all  his  brutality,  the  fellow  had  once 
done  a  great  service  to  Laurie's  father,  and 
was  befriended  by  him. 

"What  shall  I  do  with  him,  gentlemen?"  he 
said,  "you  all  saw  that  dastardly  act;  he  isn't 
worth  killing." 

"Git  up,"  said  the  major  curtly;  and, 
strangely  enough,  Marlowe  arose,  and  spurn- 
ing the  prostrate  figure  slightly  with  his  foot, 
let  him  go. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  young  fellow,  turn- 
ing to  the  others,  "you  all  know  that  my  hon- 
ored father  is  a  preacher  of  the  gospel,  and 
has  spent  his  life  in  the  service  of  the  church; 
the  hymn  that  old  man  began  to  sing  was 
always  a  favorite  of  his,  and  no  one  shall  in- 


86  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

suit  that  old  negro  or  pour  contempt  on  that 
hymn,  unless  he  first  puts  me  beyond  the 
power  of  hearing  him." 

"You  are  right,"  several  voices  said. 

The  major  looked  silently  on  while  the 
young  fellow  was  speaking.  "Walter,"  he 
said,  "come  here;  you  see  that  old  man;  he 
has  not  many  years  to  live,  maybe,  but  take 
him  yourself — your  father  won't  object  to  any- 
thing you  do,  he  is  a  good  man  and  a  holy 
one — and  let  him  spend  his  last  years  in 
peace." 

"I  will  do  that  gladly,"  responded  Marlowe, 
"I  was  going  to  propose  it  myself." 

The  plan  was  applauded  by  all.  "That 
will  suit  all  round,"  said  some  one. 

"Wall,  it  won't  suit  me,"  said  Hank  Sta- 
ples,  "fur  I  hain't  agoin'  to  sell  him." 

"Yes,  you  will !"  thundered  the  major.  "Yes, 
you  will,"  echoed  the  crowd.  "And  if  you 
don't  agree,"  continued  the  major,  incensed 
at  last  against  his  parasite,  "you'll  never  set 
foot  in  my  house  agin,  an'  I'm  the  only 
friend  you've  got  in  the  world,  you  know 
that  d—  well." 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  87 

"You've  got  your  title  to  aristocracy,  you 
idiot!"  suggested  some  dne,  "now's  your 
chance  to  get  your  money  back  besides." 

This  argument  seemed  to  find  a  lodgment 
in  his  alleged  mind,  or,  perhaps,  he  was  not 
willing  to  break  with  Laurie's  father,  and  so, 
after  a  little,  he  gave  a  half  reluctant  acqui- 
escence to  the  plan. 

"How  do  you  like  the  idea,  Uncle  Ben?" 
asked  Harry  Napier,  who  was  chosen,  on  the 
strength  of  being  the  judge's  son,  to  preside 
over  the  sale. 

"Amen!  Amen!  I  likes  it  powerful;"  re- 
ponded  Ben;  "Mas'r  Walter  nex'  'ting  to  my 
own  folks,  an'  I  likes  to  git  a  chance  to  lib 
wid  de  good  ole  doctor." 

"Then,"  said  Napier  laughing,  "Uncle  Ben 
must  stand  upon  the  bench  over  there  and 
knock  himself  down  to  the  highest  bidder. 
Nevermind,  Mr.  Staples,"  he  continued,  see- 
ing the  rather  crestfallen  look  of  the  "trash," 
"we  will  run  up  the  bids  until  Marlowe  pays 
you  a  good  price  for  your  property."  His  fun- 
loving  spirit  hailed  the  sport  of  the  thing,  but 
he  was  too  kind  at  heart    to  willingly  see  any 


88  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

creature  suffer  for  it.  His  faults — and  they 
were  many — were  the  faults  of  a  rash  temper, 
never  deliberate  cruelty.  Under  all  his  wild 
ways  he  had  a  heart  that  would  not  take 
pleasure  in  the  suffering  of  anything  that 
lived. 

Uncle  Ben  took  his  stand  on  the  bench, 
highly  amused,  but  equal  to  the  occasion. 
"Heah  I  stan',  gentlemen,"  he  began;  "goin,' 
goin,'  goin,'  to  de  highest  bidder;  how  much 
is  I  offered  fur  dis  good  'telligent  nigger?  He's 
hones'  an'  squar'  an'  he's  got  a  heap  o'sense, 
an'  he'll  make  a  good  han'  to  ten'  to  de  do', 
an'  carry  'roun'  passels,  an*  mebbe,  sometime, 
when  dey  ain't  got  nobody  else  he  kin  preach 
to  de  niggers  'bout  de  dangers  ob  de  hen- 
roos',  an'  de  watermillion  patch;  how  much 
is  I  offered  fur  dis  good  valuable  nigger?" 

Marlowe  bid  the  price  Staples  had  paid 
previously. 

"Gone!"  said  Uncle  Ben,  dismounting,  "de 
nigger  is  yourn." 

"Hold  on,"  said  young  Napier,  the  judge, 
"that  isn't  legal  and  just  to  the  owner;  you 
can't  knock  yourself  down  on  one  bid;  you 
must  wait  for  the  second,  at  least." 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  89 

"How  much  is  I  offered  fur  dis  fine  ole  nig- 
ger?" continued  that  individual,  getting  just 
a  little  anxious  now  as  to  his  fate. 

Some  one  else  made  a  bid  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing,  and   Marlowe   made  a  still  higher  one. 

"Is  dat  s'ficient?"  inquired  Uncle  Ben. 

"Yes,"  explained  Napier,  "but  don't  close 
the  sale  too  quick,  give  the  buyers  a  chance." 

"All  right,"  said  Uncle  Ben,  "but  if  de  right 
pusson  don't  bid  de  highes'  price  dis  auction 
ain't  gwine  ter  close  till  to-morrer  mornin'." 

There  were  no  more  bids,  and  he  announced: 

"I'm  goin, '  goin, '  gone  to  Mr.  Marlowe 
fur  de  highes'  bid,  and  cheap  at  half  de 
money."  Uncle  Ben  was  henceforth  "one  o' 
dem  stuck  up  Marlowe  niggers,"  whom  Aunt 
Viney  couldn't  get  along  with  "nohow." 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  hours  wore  on,  and  the  twilight  deep- 
ened into  night — still  the  revelry   continued. 

Uncle  Ben  had  been  seated  in  a  farmer's 
wagon,  and  consigned  to  the  Rev.  Duncan 
Marlowe  without  any  written  explanation; 
leaving  him  to  make  the  best  terms  he  could 
with  the  kind-hearted  clergyman. 

The  students  of  every  college  have  their 
peculiar  way  of  having  fun.  Those  of  the  S — 
college,  the  "M.  K's,"  found  their  highest 
enjoyment  in  forming  themselves  into  a 
marauding  party  and  turning  the  town  topsy- 
turvy on  Saturday  nights,  so  that  the  long- 
suffering  citizens,  on  the  morrow,  would  won- 
der if  an  earthquake  had  visited  the  place 
during  the  night  or  set  them  to  doubting  that 
they,  themselves,  were  in  a  rational  state  of 
mind. 

Walter  Marlowe    astounded    them  all  this 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  gi 

night  by  refusing  to  go  with  them,  as  he 
wished  to  return  home  with  the  major;  but  it 
was  voted  that  the  major  should  join  the 
party.  Then  came  a  difficulty;  the  major, 
in  his  capricious  mood,  insisted  that  Hank 
Staples  should  go  wherever  he  went;  so  the 
situation  was,  plainly,  to  either  admit  him  or 
lose  the  major,  and,  consequently,  Marlowe; 
so  they  chose  the  former  course.  Harry 
Napier  insisted  that  both  the  new-comers 
should  take  the  oath  of  the  "M.  K's." 

He  read  it  over  and  they  subscribed  to  it, 
the  oath  referring  to  the  one  night  only;  it 
did  not  admit  them  into  the  order  at  all;  that 
required  an  elaborate  formula.  This  was  the 
oath: 

"In  the  name  of  heaven,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  you  my  companions,  I  do  solemnly 
swear  that  I  will  never  reveal  the  secrets  of 
this  night's  work  so  long  as  I  shall  live,  so 
help  me  God!" 

And  these  fatal  words  they  repeated  because, 
in  their  blindness,  they  loved  the  exaggera- 
tion— the  solemn  tone  of  them; — idle  young 
fellows  who  had  nothing  else  to  do. 


92  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

The  major,  who  was  wildly  hilarious  when 
his  changeable  mood  shifted  in  that  direction, 
said  he  considered  having  fun  the  inalienable 
right  of  all  young  men  at   college. 

"I  remember,"  said  the  major,  "about  ten 
years  ago,  when  the  Jinkins  boys  was  in  the 
'M.  K's.'  One  of  'em  is  the  smartest  lawyer 
in  the  state  now,  and  stands  a  good  chance 
of  bein'  governor;  Clodious  Jinkins — 'Clod,' 
as  they  used  to  call  him — was  head  o'the  clan 
just  as  you  are  now,  Mr.  Napier.  Well,  one 
Saturday  night  jest  before  commencement — 
like  it  is  now — them  boys  went  out  to  have  a 
good  time,  and,  glory!  didn't  they  make  this 
old  town  lively,  for  a  few  days!  Sunday 
mornin'  come,  and  the  folks  all  got  up  and 
commenced  to  git  ready  for  church.  The 
parson,  who  had  been  pretty  hard  on  the  S — 
boys  in  his  sermon,  had  on  his  best  clothes 
and  was  jest  washed  and  shaved  and  started 
out  for  a  mornin'  walk;  when  he  lifted  the 
latch,  his  hands  was  stuck  fast  with  tar,  ha! 
ha!  and  there  wasn't  no  soap  -in  his  house 
that  could  take  it  off  before  church  time. 
Nearly  all  the  sign-boards  in  town  was  turned 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  93 

upside  down;  the  front  steps  of  the  hotel 
was  oiled  so  slick  that  everybody  that  came 
out  set  down  before  they  got  invited  to,  and 
went  to  the  ground  like  boys  on  a  cellar 
door.  On  the  door  of  the  old  jail  up  there 
was  stickin'  the  placard  from  the  new  hotel 
sayin'  'handsome  new  lodgin's  fitted  up  for 
guests,  and  all  the  delicacies  of  the  season 
without  extra  charge. ' 

"The  old  president  had  just  been  removed 
because  he  was  too  strict  with  the  boys, 
though  he  didn't  do  nuthin'  but  enforce  the 
rules  as  he  found  'em;  but, you  see,  it  wouldn't 
do  to  let  the  institution  git  unpopular;  so 
they  put  another  man  in  his  place;  and  the 
Saturday  which  I  was  speakin'  about,  the 
boys  burned  him  in  effigy — so  to  speak.  In 
the  middle  of  the  public  square,  there  is  where 
they  made  his  grave;  and  Sunday  mornin' 
as  the  folks  went  to  church,  they  saw  a  fresh 
mound  o'  earth  and  a  white  painted  board  at 
the  head  of  it  on    which    was  wrote    the  fol- 

lowin': 

"Sacred  to  the  memory  of 

President  Williams, 

who  was  killed  by  the  accidental  discharge  of 

his  duty. 


94  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"That  struck  me  as  bein'  pretty  funny,  as 
well  as  havin'  a  kind  of  rebuke  to  the  trustees 
down  in  the  heart  of  it.  Well,  I  tell  you 
they  didn't  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  find 
out  the  feller  what  wrote  that.  They  fell  on 
one  young  man  and  thought  by  threatenin' 
to  expel  him  and  disgrace  him,  they'd  make 
him  speak,  and  tell  who'd  done  it;  but  they 
didn't  and  the  poor  fellow  was  turned  out  in 
a  shameful  way.  'Twas  pretty  hard  on  him, 
'specially  as  most  people  thought  'twant  him 
'tall;  but  that  was  better  than  breakin'  that 
oath  what's  been  kept  by  so  many  men;  for 
I  reckon  a  feller  wouldn't  hardly  hold  up  his 
head  here  in  C —  if  he'd  broke  the  oath  of  the 
'M.  K's,' — you  know  how  it  is  yourselves; 
it's  been  kept  so  long  that  it's  got  to  be  a  sort 
of  feelin'  amongst  you  that  it  must  be  kep' 
anyhow,  eh? 

"Well,  that  mornin'  Ijes'  went  on,  laughin' 
fit  to  kill  myself,  when  I  spied  the  head  of 
'Mose, '  my  old  mule,  stickin'  out  o'  the 
second  story  winder  o'  the  court-house.  He 
was  blind,  most,  and  would  go  any  where  they 
led  him,  an'  there  he  was  that  peaceful  Sun- 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  g5 

day  mornin'  stickin'  his  head  out  o'  the  win- 
der, all  ring-streaked  and  striped,  from  his 
head  to  his  tail,  like  unto  a  zebry  in  the  circus. 
That  was  the  trick  they  played  on  me;  but  I 
didn't  git  mad,  no,  not  a  whit;  I  believe  in 
the  boys  havin'  fun." 

It  was  agreed  by  the  students  that  the  ma- 
jor was  a  trump;  and  they  set  their  wits  to 
work  to  devise  some  mischief  to  eclipse,  if 
possible,  even  the  record  of  the  Jinkenses. 

The  major  said:  "I  know  you  boys  don't 
mean  no  harm,  and  if  anybody  interferes  with 
you  jest  refer  'em  to  us,  eh,  Hank?" 

"Thar's  whar  you  are  solid,  maje,"  replied 
Mr.  Staples;  "we  stuck  together  at  'Cherry 
Gordy, '  an'  'Buner  Vistir, '  and  I  reckon  we 
kin  stick  to  the  boys  through  a  little  frolic 
like  this." 

Some  one  proposed,  as  they  were  leaving 
Hartley's,  to  drink  Mr.  Staples'  health  after 
such  a  chivalrous  speech;  but  Hank,  forget- 
ting his  caution  in  his  delight  at  being  so  well 
into  the  major's  good  graces  again, said:  "No, 
gentlemen,  ef  you  want  to  honor  me,  drink 
to  Laurie  McNaughton,  the  gal  what  I  love 
best." 


g6  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

And  again,  for  the  second  time  that  night, 
Marlowe  was  upon  him.  He  spoke  in  an  un- 
dertone so  that  only  a  few  heard  him.  "You 
impertinent  scoundrel!"  he  said,  (trembling 
in  the  effort  to  speak  low  and  avoid  attracting 
the  general  attention)  "if  you  speak  her  name 
in  my  presence  again,  I'll  whip  you  until  you 
are  half  dead." 

"Good  for  you,  Hank '"said  the  major,  who 
alone  understood  it  all;  "you're  gettin'  too 
d —  impudent  lately;  keep  in  your  place  here- 
after and  don't  you  dare  to  say  them  words 
again — d'ye  hear?" 

Then  the  marauders  started  on  their  rounds, 
the  major  having  many  a  laugh  at  the  ludi- 
crous things  they  did;  but  Hank  Staples  stood 
aside,  sullenly  muttering  between  his  teeth: 
"Go  ahead  and  have  your  fun  now,  yer  stuck- 
up  swells!  my  turn'll  come  one  o' these  days." 

They  had  fun  to  their  hearts'  content;  but 
as  the  town  clock  stuck  two,  the  major  sud- 
denly grew  tired  of  it  all,  and  said  he  was  go- 
ing home;  and  Walter  could  not  be  dissuaded 
from  his  purpose  to  accompany  him.  He 
had  arrived  too  late  to  prevent    the  degrada- 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  97 

tion  that  Laurie  had  feared;  but  he  would  do 
all  he  could — he  would  at  least  see  that  he  re- 
turned to  his  home  in  safety.  So  the  whole 
party  agreed  to  escort  them  also.  This  ar- 
ranged, they  started  on  their  journey  in  great 
glee;  there  were,  besides  Major  McNaughton 
and  Hank  Staples,  six  of  the  students;  all  the 
five  were  to  graduate  with  Marlowe  in  a  few 
weeks. 

They  answered,  at  roll  call,  to  the  names 
of  Arthur  Dalton,  Ernest  Caldwell,  Randolph 
King,  Lewis  Holbrook,  Walter  Marlowe  and 
Harry  Napier.  With  the  exception  of  Staples, 
they  were  all  well  mounted.  The  old  Senora, 
wonderful,  for  one  of  her  great  age,  showed 
to  no  disadvantage  among  the  array  of  mag- 
nificent animals,  but  held  her  own  nobly. 
Harry  Napier  rode  his  famous  coal-black 
mare. 

Harry  Napier  the  peerless!  How  long  and 
how  well  the  people  remembered  him — erect, 
and  lithe  of  limb — they  said  he  had  the  dark- 
est blue  eyes  they  ever  saw,  and  hair  of  a  rich 
chestnut  brown,  thrown  back  from  his  fore- 
head and  falling  in  heavy  clusters  about  his 
7 


98  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

neck.  He  was  a  stranger  to  fear,  malice  and 
meanness,  and  without  an  enemy  in  the  world. 
Yet  he  was  the  outlaw  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. They  said,  too,  that  they  had  seen 
him  do  such  deeds  of  foolhardiness,  and  come 
through  them,  that  they  had  come  almost  to 
think  him  invincible  to  harm. 

His  father,  the  judge,  who,  in.  his  heart, 
every  one  knew  idolized  the  boy,  often  sen- 
tenced him  to  be  locked  up  over  night  for 
some  disturbance  of  the  peace;  but  it  always 
so  happened  that  no  constable  could  be  found 
able  to  execute  the  order.  There  was  not  one 
of  them  who  would  not  have  abused  his 
office,  to  some  extent,  for  love  of  the  wild, 
but  generous-hearted  young  fellow.  He  was 
the  leading  spirit  to-night. 

Marlowe,  noticing  him  carefully,  thought 
he  had  taken  more  wine  than  usual;  in  fact 
Marlowe  himself  was  the  only  one  in  the 
party  exempt  from  the  same  charge.  He  tried 
to  conceal  from  the  major  that  he  was  acting 
according  to  a  promise  made  to  Laurie;  he 
knew  the  father  well  enough  to  feel  sure  that 
he  would  resent  the  idea  of  surveillance;  but 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  99 

still  he  kept  close  to  him.  The  major  would 
break  out  into  a  most  hilarious  manner  occa- 
sionally, but  Marlowe,  who  watched  him 
closely  also,  could  not  escape  the  impression 
that  the  greater  part  of  it  was  forced;  he  was 
trying  to  drown  unpleasant  thoughts,  evi- 
dently, but  the  experiences  of  the  day  had 
left  a  sore  spot  very  near  the  surface,  and 
woe  to  the  hand  that  should  touch  it! 

Their  way  lay  across  a  small  river  which,  at 
certain  places,  could  be  safely  forded.  Old 
"Senora,"the  mare,  had  crossed  it  and  carried 
her  master  safely  over,  a  thousand  times;  but 
there  were  certain  inequalities  in  the  bed  of 
the  river  which  were  to  be  carefully  avoided 
and,  at  a  little  distance  from  the  ford,  there 
were  several  deep  holes,  supposed  to  be  too 
well  known  to  require  a  mark.  The  old  mare 
herself,  would  have  known  how  to  pick  her 
way  safely  across,  but  she  had  never  crossed 
it  in  such  company  before. 

The  mad  cavalcade  dashed  in  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  Marlowe  riding  close  to 
the  major, — and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were 
climbing  the  bank  on  the    other  side — all  but 


IOO  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

two.  Senora  had  gotten  into  the  treacherous 
pitfalls  and  lost  her  footing;  she  fell,  precipi- 
tating her  rider  into  the  water.  Marlowe 
shouted  to  the  others  to  stop,  and  in  a  very 
few  minutes  they  got  the  major  ashore, 
thoroughly  suaked,  thoroughly  angry,  and 
swearing  like  a  trooper  for  his  horse.  But  the 
faithful  creature  was  fast  getting  beyond  help. 
Below  the  ford  there  was  a  fall  in  the  river, 
and  being  badly  hurt  and  unable  to  swim  she 
went  swiftly  towards  it. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  her  master  dazed 
and  maddened  by  the  brandy  he    had  drunk. 

"Where  is  my  horse?"  he  shouted.  "Bring 
me  my  horse,  you  scoundrels!"  A  horrible 
fear  enraged  him. 

"Senora,  my  girl!"  he  called  to  her,  and 
started  towards  the  ford  again.  The  mare, 
now  near  the  fall,  and  plunging  helplessly, 
answered  him  in  a  wild  shrieking  neigh.  Have 
you  ever  heard  the  cry  of  a  drowning  horse? 
Those  who  have,  pray  that  they  may  never 
hear  it  again.  Her  master  realized  that  she 
was  going  to  her  death;  with  a  deep  curse, 
he  staggered    forward    in  a    mad    impulse  to 


V    MODERN    QUIXOTE  IOI 

save  her.  This  would  have  been  suicide;  few 
swimmers,  in  best  condition,  could  have  with- 
stood the  strong  current   just    above  the  fall. 

Marlowe  had  done  his  best;  two  strong  arms 
went  round  the  major's  waist  and  held  him 
back.  He  struggled  desperately  to  loosen  the 
grasp,  now  thoroughly  angry,  but  it  was  firm 
as  iron.  His  idolized  horse — his  darling  Se- 
nora — was  dying  before  his  eyes,  and  he  could 
not  stir  to  her  rescue.  In  the  brief  instant  in 
which  he  heard  her  terrible  neighing,  and  stood 
there,  pinioned,  past  scenes  arose  before  his 
eyes  with  the  swiftness  of  thought — the 
bloody  battles  of  Mexico  through  which  the 
gallant  mare  had  borne  him,  answering  like  a 
child  to  each  touch,  each  word;  all  the  thrill- 
ing scenes  of  danger  when  her  fleet  limbs  had 
brought  him  with  a  speed  like  the  wind;  now 
the  noble  beauty — next  to  Laurie,  the  pride 
of  his  heart — was  struggling  in  the  dark  water, 
and  he  stood  there  helpless. 

"Let  me  go!"  he  shouted  once  more,  with 
a  terrible  oath,  but  the  others  gathered 
around  him  and  held  him  back;  they  knew  it 
would  be  death   to   him  if    they    let  him  go. 


102  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

Then,  as  their  eyes  grew  more  accustomed  to 
the  darkness  down  the  stream,  they  saw  her, 
with  a  convulsive  effort  to  gain  a  footing,  go 
over  the  rocks. 

That  was  the  end;  the  death  scream,  as 
the  waters  swept  her  over,  struck  horror  to 
the  heart  of  every  man  on  the  bank.  When 
her  master  saw  that  she  was  gone  he  turned 
upon  the  men  who  had  held  him,  with  the 
rage  of  a  tiger  in  his  motions. 

"See,  you  have  killed  her!"  he  shouted. 
"You  scoundrels!  now  let  me  go!"  He  was 
mad  with  conflicting  emotions;  in  a  moment 
he  had  wrenched  himself  free,  and  struck  the 
young  man  who  had  held  him  heavily  across 
the  face  with  the  riding-whip  which  he  still 
held  in  his  hand.  The  movement  was  so  un- 
expected that  before  they  could  disarm  him 
of  the  whip  he  had  dealt  several  stinging, 
lacerating  blows  with  it  and  the  insult  was  an- 
swered. A  stiletto-like  blade  flashed  in  the 
air,  and,  though  many  arms  were  interposed, 
they  were  too  late  to  arrest  it;  the  blade  was 
buried  in  the  major's  breast,  and  the  gallant 
horse  and  her  once  dashing  rider  went  to  their 
death  together,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  wreck  of  a  late  moon  arose  above  the 
river  bank,  and  looked  upon  the  white  face 
of  Marshall  McNaughton  as  he  lay,  tranquil 
and  composed,  under  the  sky  of  the  summer 
night,  as  though  a  loving  hand  had  arranged 
the  disheveled  garments  for  peaceful  burial. 
None,  looking  at  the  quiet  face  alone,  would 
have  thought  of  violence  and  murder;  death 
had  done  its  greatest  work  here,  as  so  often 
happens  to  the  face  that  does  not  fear  it. 

It  was  again  the  face  of  the  gallant  soldier 

of  Cerro  Gordo,    lying  upon    the   cool    earth 

with  a  dark  wound  beneath  the  folded  hands, 

as  he  had  dreamed  that  he  might  lie  in  death 

upon  some  battle  plain    under  the    sky  of  old 

Mexico.      Yet  they  had  called  it    a    kind  fate 

that  spared    the  young  soldier  on  the  field  of 

honor!      Nature  had  made  him  for  a  soldier; 

death    became    him  better    than  life.       This 
103 


104  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

deadly  fairness  brought  out  a  wonderful  like- 
ness between  this  and  another  face  just  be- 
yond the  river  and  up  through  the  grove,  not 
a  mile  from  the  fatal  spot.  The  same  moon- 
light fell  upon  them,  the  same  night  breeze 
kissed  them,  first  one  and  then  the  other  as  it 
wandered  to  and  fro,  fragrant  with  the  odors 
of  the  summer  night;  both  unconscious — 
both  asleep. 

Laurie  had  watched  for  her  father  through 
the  long  afternoon,  sitting  by  the  bend  where 
she  could  see  him  first,  Carlo's  head  resting 
on  her  knee;  she  had  no  anxiety  about  him 
to-day;    was  not  Walter  with  him? 

"We  can  always  trust  Walter,  can't  we, 
Carlo?"  This  hitherto  neglected  companion 
gave  a  joyous  bark  in  answer  to  the  beloved 
name.  He  took  his  seat  beside  her,  remem- 
bering his  master's  charge.  He  laid  his  head 
in  her  lap  and  prepared  for  a  doze,  keeping 
the  corner  of  one  eye  open,  however,  in  order 
to  be  up  with  any  stray  farmer's  dog  that 
might  come  along,  and  receiving  Laurie's 
caresses  as  philosophically  as  though  he  had 
known  they  were    meant  for   some  one  else. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  IO5 

This  watch  continued  until  the  sun  got  very 
low  in  the  west;  and  she  began  then  to  feel 
a  keen  disappointment.  She  had  thought 
Walter  would  bring  him  earlier  this  time. 

"But  they  will  come,  Carlo — they  will 
come,"  she  kept  saying  over  and  over.  Carlo 
thought  they  would.  She  said  to  herself,  "In 
a  few  moments  more  the  sun  will  be  behind 
that  hill;  by  that  time  they  will  come,  I  know 
they  will;  we  will  wait  that  long  and  then — 
go  in." 

Just  as  the  reddening  sun  touched  the  sum- 
mit, she  heard  the  long  expected  sound  of 
horse's  feet;  she  stood  behind  the  trees  by 
the  bend  with  her  hand  on  Carlo's  collar,  and 
waited;  but  her  cheek  blanched  to  a  deathly 
whiteness  when  the  sound  passed  by,  along 
the  main  road,  and  she  heard  the  strange  voices 
of  the  horsemen. 

"Must  have  been  a  fine  old  place  in  its 
day,"  said  one. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other  voice, "there  wasn't 
a  finer  place  in  the  state  twenty  year  ago 
but  it's  been  a  runnin'  down  pretty  fast  here 
lately.     Reck'n  things  was   at    a    pretty  low 


106  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

ebb  when  he  put  up  that  old  nigger  for  sale." 

"Yes,  he  peared  moughty  cut  up  'bout  it; 
well,  I  reck'n — "  They  passed  out  of  hear- 
ing, two  neighboring  farmers  on  their  way 
home  from  the  sale. 

The  girl  put  a  little  hand  on  her  heart  in  a 
pathetic  gesture  of  pain;  she  thought  at  first 
they  were  talking  of  her  own  father;  but  the 
reference  to  the  selling  of  a  negro,  that  re- 
lieved her  mind;  of  course  they  were  talking 
of  some  other  family.  But  it  was  getting  late 
and  she  must  go.  Still  no  sign  of  horse  or 
rider  on  the  now  darkening  road. 

"Come,  Carlo,"  she  said;  and  with  the 
deepest  sigh  her  young  lips  had  ever  yet 
breathed,  she  abandoned  the  watch,  and 
went,  with  slow  and  heavy  steps,  towards  the 
house;  trying,  oh,  so  hard!  not  to  doubt  her 
lover.  Supper  was  a  pretense.  "Why, 
Honey,  what  make  you  take  on  so?"  old 
Viney  asked,  looking  at  the  pale  face  ruefully, 
her  arms  akimbo.  "Dis  ain't  de  fust  time  what 
yer  pa  did'n  come  home." 

Poor  little  girl!  she  was  trying  to  be  brave, 
but  she  had  been  so    disappointed;    the  tears 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  IO7 

were  very  near  the  surface,  and  at  the  first 
touch  of  sympathy  they  overflowed.  "Oh, 
mammy!"  she  whispered,  as  she  clung  round 
the  old  nurse's  neck,  lest  the  spirits  of  the  air 
should  hear  her  blame  him,  "but  Walter 
promised  he  would  bring  him  to  me;  I  wish 
Uncle  Ben  were  here — where  is  he?" 

"Nebber  min',  Honey — nebber  min';"  said 
the  old  creature,  trying  to  reassure  her,  though 
her  own  heart  was  very  heavy.  She  knew 
that  Uncle  Ben  would  come  no  more  in  the 
old  way.  "My  'pinion  is,"  she  began  after  a 
little,  as  she  was  clearing  away  the  untasted 
supper,  "dat  Mas'r  Walter  done  struck  up  wid 
dem  college  chaps  o'  hisen,  and  deys  gone 
off  on  some  o'  dere  sky-larkin' — " 

"Oh,  mammy!" 

"Nebber  min',  Honey;  I  knows  all  'bout  it; 
I  tink  Mas'r  Walter  mighty  fine  gem 'man  too, 
but  ef  you  gits  a  husband  what  don'  git  drunk 
'cepin'  on  Sat'days  you'sgwine  ter  be  power- 
ful lucky — you  is." 

But  Laurie  refused  to  take  this  novel  con- 
solation. She  sat  by  an  open  window  and 
watched  the  road  until  the  twilight  deepened 


108  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

into  night;  still  they  did  not  come,  and  still 
she  did  not  stir.  The  old  nurse  tried  all  her 
powers  of  intimidation  first,  of  persuasion 
afterwards,  but  Laurie  shook  her  head,  too 
full  to  speak,  and  would  not  go. 

So  Aunt  Viney  sat  down  at  last  to  share 
her  watch,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  after  the 
toils  of  the  day,  was  sleeping  heavily  in  her 
corner.  The  window  at  which  Laurie  sat 
was  a  wide,  low  one,  opening  to  the  east. 
One  arm  was  round  the  huge  dog's  neck,  and 
her  tear-stained  cheek  was  laid  upon  the 
other,  which  rested  on  the  window-sill.  The 
hours  wore  on  and  the  sighs  which  broke  poor 
Carlo's  heart  gradually  ceased.  The  young 
eyes,  unused  to  watching  and  to  grief,  slowly 
closed,  and  Laurie,  thinking  only  that  her 
lover  had  forgotten  his  promise,  had  cried 
herself  to  sleep. 

She  was  sleeping  thus,  her  head  upon  the 
folded  white  arm,  when  the  moon  rose,  first 
upon  the  major's  dead  face  by  the  river's 
brink,  and  touched  the  girl's  bent  head  with 
its  waning  light;  it  shone  into  the  eyes  of  the 
only  waking  watcher  there,   old  Carlo — who, 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I09 

in  the  prescience  of  his  great  race,  foresaw 
misfortune,  and  would  not  quit  his  place  by 
Laurie's  side. 

He  sat  there  through  the  long  hours  of 
night,  1  s  nose  pointed  upward  to  the  moon, 
and  hi  £ilken  ears  falling  back,  while  a  look 
of  hur.  an  wistfulness  shone  through  his  eyes. 
The  only  sign  of  restlessness  he  betrayed  was 
that  now  and  then  he  would  take  one  white- 
mittened  paw  from  the  girl's  knee  and  put  up 
the  other;  and  there  he  kept  his  charge, 
faithful  where  the  master  had  failed — wakeful 
while  the  daughter  slept.  At  length  the  fair 
summer  dawn  broke  in  the  east;  and  still 
Laurie  slept  the  sleep  of  youth. 

Old  Viney  woke  with  the  first  streak  of 
light  and  went  on  tiptoe  to  another  room, 
brought  a  light  shawl,  .and,  with  love's  gentle 
touch,  laid  it  around  her  darling's  shoulders, 
and  went  softly  out  to  her  tasks.  She  patted 
Carlo  on  the  head  and  left  them  together. 
The  light  slowly  broadened  and  brightened 
on  the  scene,  and  the  peaceful  Sabbath  morn- 
ing had  begun  its  reign  upon  the  earth. 

Aunt  Viney  went  about  her  task  of  getting 


IIO  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

breakfast,  her  mind  far  from  being  in  harmony 
with  the  serenity  of  the  new  day.  She  was 
oppressed  with  a  persistent  foreboding;  she 
had  energetically  characterized  herself  "an 
ole  black  fool"  many  times,  but,  sing  as  she 
would,  the  feeling  would  not  be  gone. 

She  had  certainly  succeeded  in  working 
herself  into  a  very  hysterical  state,  for  when 
she  looked  up  from  blowing  the  smoldering 
chunks  into  a  blaze,  and  saw  the  familiar  face 
of  Uncle  Ben  looking  silently  in  through  the 
kitchen  window,  she  uttered  an  ear-piercing 
shriek  and  dropped  her  head  between  her 
^nees  in  true  African  fashion.  When  he  spoke 
in  his  earthly  voice,  however,  and  convinced 
her  there  was  nothing  supernatural  about  the 
apparition,  she  arose  and  went  about  her 
work  just  as  though  nothing    had  happened. 

"Come  in,  Unc'  Ben,"  she  said,  "an'  tell 
somebody  whar  you's  come  from.  'Fore 
Gawd!  What  you  want  ter  be  skeerin'  folks 
outen  dere  min'sfur,  lookin'in  dat  kin  o'quiet 
like,  as  if  you  jes'  drop  from  de  sky  or  som- 
'ers?" 

"Well,  fur  de  Lawd's  sake,  Sis'  Viney,  you 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  III 

don'  mean  ter  tell  me  yer  ain't  h'yearn  nuffin 
'bout  it?"  replied  the  visitor,  as  he  entered 
(with  a  newly  acquired  dignity,  Aunt  Vieny 
thought,)  placed  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  floor, 
and  parting  the  tails  of  a  long  black  coat,  al- 
so newly  acquired,  took  his  seat  on  the  most 
available  stool.  Aunt  Viney,  without  appear- 
ing to  take  much  notice,  was  watching  him 
keenly  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes. 

"Ain't  you  dun  h'yearn  nuffin'bout  my  bein' 
sol'  to  dat  Hank  Staples?"  he  continued. 
That  brought  her  around. 

"What!"  she  screamed,  facing  about  and 
staring  at  the  speaker;  and,  with  open  eyes 
and  mouth,  and  hands  on  her  hips,  she  drank 
in  the  rest  of  the  story. 

If  there  was  anything  the  old  fellow  really 
loved,  it  was  an  audience,  and  a  good  story 
with  which  to  regale  it.  He  made  the  most 
of  this  melancholy  occasion,  and  went  on  to 
give  Aunt  Viney,  in  the  main,  a  pretty  correct 
account  of  the  day's  proceedings,  after  what 
flourish  his  nature  would;  he  was  worked  up 
to  such  a  state  of  excitement  during  the  re- 
cital of  his  experiences  that  he   lost  sight,  for 


112  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

the  time  being,  of  his  present  errand.  He 
came  back  to  it  with  a  shock  of  recollection. 
"But  see  yere,  Sis'  Viney,"  he  began  in  a 
changed  tone,  "what  you  tink  when  I  tells  you 
Mas'r  Walter  ain't  dun  been  home  all  night? 
I  h'yeard  the  ole  gem'man  git  up  more'n 
wunst  in  de  night  and  go  tiptoein'  to  his 
room  ter  see  ef  he  wuz  dere.  I  had  a  pallet 
down  in  de  study  for  dat  night,  an'  I  could'n 
sleep  nuther,  kase  I  got  to  tinkin'  'bout  all 
de  strange  circumstancials  what's  been  hap- 
penin'  lately,  and  so  I  h'yeard  him  shet  de 
do'  wid  a  awful  sigh  an'  go  back  to  his  own 
room.  I  don'  b'leive  he  slep'  none  'tall  all  de 
night  long,  fur  he  wuz  up  walkin'  in  de  gyard- 
ing  jes'  arter  daylight,  but  he  nebber  let  on, 
an'  when  he  seed  me,  he  jes'sez  to  me,  smilin' 
at  me  kin'  o'  quiet  like  over  his  specs,  'Well, 
Unc'  Ben,  don'  you  want  ter  go  over  ter  see 
how  yer  folks  is  gittin'  'long  at  de  ole  place 
dis  mornin'?'  I  'lowed  as  how  I'd  be  powerful 
glad  to  go,  an'  when  I  was  goin'  out  de  gate, 
he  sez,  kin'  o'  offhand-like — "Say,  Unc'  Ben, 
you  kin  jes'  ask  'em  ef  Mr.  Walter  wuz  wid 
de  major  when  he  kum  home  las'  night.'" 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  H3 

"Bress  your  heart,  chile!  you  caint  find  out 
nufnn  here;  we  ain't  seed  nary  a  one  ob  'em 
sence  yistiddy,"  interrupted  Aunt  Viney. 

"My  Savior  'bove!  you  don'  say  so!"  cried 
the  astounded  visitor.  "Well,  I  seed  yestiddy 
Mas'r  Walter  had  his  eye  on  de  major  all  day, 
an'  I  'lowed  as  how  he  dun  fetch  him  home, 
an'stay  yere  all  night,  to  sort  o'  take  keer  of 
him  like;  an'  I  reckon  de  ole  doctor  he  kinder 
countin'  on  dat  too.  De  Lawd  know,  Sis' 
Viney,  dat  wil'  boy  give  his  poor  ole  fader 
heap  o'  trouble;  I  hope  he  sorter  settle  down 
when  he  mah'y  Honey,  ef  it  warn't  fur  nuffin 
but  jes'  de  ole  man's  sake,  he  dat  proud  of 
him." 

"Umph!"  responded  Viney,  "I  tink  he 
better  settle  down  some  fur  Honey'  sake;"  she 
felt  a  suspicion  that  Unc'  Ben  was  already 
transferring  his  interest  to  the  Marlowes,  and 
she  resented  it. 

It  was  still  very  early  when  Uncle  Ben 
arose  to  return  from  his  fruitless  errand.  He 
did  not  relish  the  thought  of  going  back  with- 
out news;  it  mortified  his  self-importance  in 
the  first  place,  and  besides  he    felt  that  there 


114  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

was  some  mystery  on  hand,  and  that  it  threat- 
ened two  beings  whom  he  held  dearer  than 
anything  else  on  earth,  unless  it  might  be  the 
old  Senora.  He  loved  Laurie,  but  he  wor- 
shiped the  other  three.  He  put  on  his  hat, 
took  up  his  stick,  and  told  Aunt  Viney  that 
he  would  go  through  the  town,  and  return 
home  that  way,  in  hopes  that  he  might  hear 
something  of  the  absentees. 

He  decided  to  call  at  young  Napier's  house, 
for  he  knew  the  young  fellows  were  great 
chums,  and  Walter  often  spent  the  night  with 
him;  the  coincidence  of  the  major's  non-ap- 
pearance made  it  a  little  improbable  that  time, 
but  still  he  would  try  it.  He  would  "jes  drap 
in,  an'  fin'  out  'dout  askin'  ef  Harry  wuz 
home." 

All  this  had  occurred  in  a  short  half  hour 
after  Aunt  Viney  had  left  Laurie  asleep  at  her 
post,  and  the  girl  did  not  see  Uncle  Ben  go 
down  the  walk  towards  the  front  gate.  She 
slept  on,  oblivious  of  her  troubles;  a  happy 
smile  played  around  her  lips.  In  the  light  of 
her  golden  dream,  it  was  her  wedding-day; 
Walter  was  there,  looking  so  grand  and  hand- 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  115 

some,  and  he  was  telling  her  that  she  had 
never  looked  so  pretty. 

There  was  Aunt  Viney,  happy  and  officious 
around  her  darling,  Uncle  Ben  in  his  Sunday 
coat — and  best  of  all,  there  was  her  dear 
father  shaking  hands  with  Walter,  and  kissing 
her  forehead  in  the  old  fond  way.  The  odor 
of  cape  jessamines  was  in  the  air,  and  the 
little  wedding  procession  was  just  starting 
from  the  front  porch,  when  a  loud  'sound 
startled  her  from  her  sleep. 

She  sprang  up  in  a  bewildered  way,  and 
Carlo,  uttering  terrific  sounds,  between  a 
bark  and  a  howl,  leapt  through  the  open  win- 
dow. She  looked  down  the  avenue,  and  saw 
a  confused  group  of  men  approaching,  their 
forms  tinged  red  with  the  morning  sun. 

As  they  came  nearer,  she  saw  that  they 
carried  a  man  on  their  rough  litter  of  branches, 
and  that  it  was  her  father.  Uncle  Ben  walked 
at  the  head.  They  brought  him  slowly — 
slowly — up  the  wide  steps,  in  through  the 
doorway,  and  into  the  very  room,  and  laid 
him  down  before  her.  Still  she  did  not  move 
or  speak;    she  stood   against  the  window,  her 


Il6  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

face  as  white  as  the  wall  behind  her,  one 
hand  stretched  out,  palm  forward,  in  a  con- 
vulsive effort  to  shut  out  the  sight — trans- 
fixed with  horror. 

The  old  negro  fell  on  his  knees  by  his  dead 
master  and  rocked  himself  backward  and  for- 
ward with  a  low  crying  sound. 

Aunt  Viney  heard  the  strange  voices  and 
came  in  to  see  that  sight,  Laurie  standing 
still  in  the  same  spot  gazing  tearless  and 
speechless  on  the  floor  where  they  had  rever- 
ently laid  him  down.  The  look  on  her  face 
frightened  the  old  nurse,  and  she  tried  to  get 
her  from  the  room.  She  would  not  hear 
them,  but  stood,  wide-eyed  and  ghastly, 
almost,  as  the  face  before  her. 
•  They  were  rough,  kindly  men,  some  of  them 
negroes,  and  they  were  afraid  of  the  look  in 
the  girl's  face  more  than  of  the  dead  one  be- 
fore them.  One  of  them,  not  knowing  what 
else  to  do  or  say,  went  out  and  brought  in  a 
packet  which  they  had  found  together  with 
the  dead  man's  hat  and  whip  a  little  way  from 
the  body.      They  undid  it  before  her. 

There  was  the    delicate    snowy  fabric  of  a 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  117 

woman's  dress — gossamer  laces,  and  all  the 
fair  belongings  of  a  wedding  robe.  It  was 
the  white  dress  he  had  promised  her,  and  now 
- — he  had  brought  it. 

It  saved  her ;  this  sight  struck  home  through 
the  trance  of  terror  that  enveloped  her,  and 
with  a  low  cry,  she  threw  herself  upon  the 
still  form,  kissing  the  beloved  hands  and 
weeping  bitterly. 

Old  Viney,  who  could  never  bear  before  to 
see  her  darling's  tears,  rejoiced  to  see  them 
now. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  McNaughton  place  was  several  miles 
from  town,  and  it  was  some  time  before  the 
tragic  news  reached  C — .  The  two  old  slaves 
and  the  orphaned  child  were  left  for  awhile 
undisturbed  with  their  grief.  The  time  went 
by  but  they  did  not  count  it.  At  last  it  oc- 
curred to  them  that  some  one  must  be  told. 

The  men  whom  Uncle  Ben  had  summoned 
to  help  him  bear  his  master's  body  home  were 
ignorant  farm-hands  and  negroes,  who  knew 
this  was  murder  and  were  afraid  to  go  to  the 
proper  authorities  and  make  it  known,  lest 
that  act  should  implicate  them  in  it,  and  so 
went  quietly  to  their  homes.  Uncle  Ben's 
first  impulse    was  to  go  to  Dr.  Marlowe. 

But    he    had    been    away   longer  than   he 

thought,    and    when  he  reached  the  Marlowe 

house,  he   found   that   the   doctor    had    been 

gone  some  time  to  the  church  connected  with 

the  college,  where  he  preached.    Mrs.  Marlowe 
118 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  Iig 

was  from  home  and  her  husband  had  gone 
alone.  His  heart  was  heavy  on  account  of 
his  son's  prolonged  absence,  and  he  felt  that 
it  boded  some  unknown  evil.  But  his  dis- 
tress of  mind  did  not  hinder  his  work;  no 
earthly  consideration  had  ever  induced  him  to 
neglect  his  religious  duties;  he  had  enlisted 
under  Christ's  banner,  knowing  well  that 
there  was  no  discharge  in  that  war,  and  he 
had  never  faltered  or  hung  back. 

The  farmers  of  the  neighborhood,  as  well 
as  those  connected  with  the  college,  attended 
service  at  the  doctor's  church,  and  were 
already  grouped  about  the  open  door.  A 
pleasant  smile  lit  up  the  faces  as  the  throng 
parted  to  let  the  good  pastor  enter.  He  was 
more  grave  this  morning  than  was  his  wont, 
but  he  stopped  and  greeted  them  all  kindly. 
Judge  Napier  stood  in  the  vestibule  talking 
with  Dr.  McKenzie,  the  president  of  the 
college. 

They  were  chatting  upon  the  topics  of  the 
day  as  their  custom  was,  before  service  began. 
The  judge  congratulated  the  doctor  upon  the 
good  record  of  his  son,    and    his  approaching 


120  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

graduation.      The   doctor   returned    the   sen- 
timent with  regard  to  young  Napier. 

"Well,"  said  the  judge,  "Harry  is  a  wild 
fellow,  but  I  believe  his  record  is  pretty  good 
so  far  as  studies  go.  I  hope  after  he  gets  his 
diploma,  he  will  settle  down  to  the  law  and 
lead  a  more  quiet  life.  He  was  off  last  night, 
on  some  mischief,  I've  no  doubt." 

"My  son  was  also  absent  from  home  last 
night,"  said  Dr.  Marlowe. 

"Is  that  so?  I  left  the  young  men  together 
in  town  yesterday  afternoon." 

"Who  was  with  them?"  inquired  the  pres- 
ident of  the  college,  who  had  been  an  attent- 
ive listener. 

"O,  there  was  some  half  dozen  of  them," 
replied  the  judge ;  "there  was  young  Marlowe, 
Holbrook,  Harry,  Randolph  King  and  others 
— there  was  a  young  fellow  with  them — a 
student  of  yours  here  but  I  don't  know  his 
name." 

"Probably  Ernest  Caldwell,"  said  the  pres- 
ident; "some  of  these  young  men  board  in  my 
house  and  are  absent  this  morning  without 
excuse.  I  fear,  gentlemen,  that  something  has 
gone  wrong." 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  121 

However,  the  service  proceeded  as  usual; 
some  of  the  congregation,  indeed,  remarked 
that  the  pastor  did  not  preach  with  his  wonted 
spirit,  and  that  the  old  president  looked  grave 
and  anxious;  though  none,  excepting  the 
preacher,  who  faced  the  door,  saw  the  frosted 
head  of  old  Uncle  Ben  approach  the  door 
every  now  and  then  and  peer  anxiously  in. 

In  his  apprehensive  state  of  mind,  the  pas- 
tor readily  connected  the  negro's  strange 
action  with  his  son's  absence,  and  once,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  experience,  he  almost  lost 
the  thread  of  his  discourse.  He  nerved  him- 
self, however,  and  went  on  to  the  end,  and 
delivered  the  benediction  in  his  clear,  solemn 
voice  and  dismissed  the  people. 

Then  he  walked  down  the  aisle  to  where 
Uncle  Ben  was  waiting  for  him.  The  old 
fellow  had  gone  to  the  door  every  time,  in- 
tending to  signal  the  doctor  to  come  out  to 
him,  for  he  felt  that  this  matter  could  not 
wait;  but  a  superstitious  fear  checked  him, 
and  he  would  go  out  again,  endeavoring  to 
wait,  sitting  on  a  tombstone,  until  the  serv- 
ice was  over.  He  beckoned  the  minister 
aside  and  spoke  in  an  excited  undertone. 


122  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

They  saw  the  doctor  throw  up  his  hand  to 
his  head,  and  lean  against  a  pillar  for  support. 
In  a  moment  the  awful  story  had  spread 
through  the  crowd  and  the  excitement  was 
intense. 

Uncle  Ben  implored  the  doctor  to  go  with 
him,  and  burying  his  own  anxiety  in  his  heart, 
(for  he  could  not  fail  to  associate  the  murder 
with  the  absence  of  the  students)  he  hastened 
to  the  house  of  death. 

Poor  Laurie  listened  to  him  when  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  her  head  and  spoke  to  her  in 
his  kind,  authoritative  voice,  and  turned  to 
him  in  piteous  dependency. 

He  stayed  there  through  the  terrible  day 
and  saved  her  from  many  a  harrowing  ordeal. 
He  bade  the  old  nurse  take  her  to  her  room 
and  keep  her  there  until  the  coroner  had  been 
summoned  and  finished  his  ghastly  work. 

The  verdict  was  murder  and  not  suicide,  as 
some  had  vaguely  hoped  it  might  be. 

The  minister  heard,  the  load  on  his  heart 
growing  heavier  and  heavier. 

Sympathetic  friends  filled  the  house,  and 
the  girl  had  no  need  of  him  further  so  he  went 
home  late  in  the  afternoon. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  123 

Old  Ben  saw  him  go  down  the  avenue  alone 
in  the  western  light,  a  solitary,  bent  figure 
walking  slowly  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him,  in  deep  thought,  and  followed  him.  The 
house  was  full  of  strangers,  there  seemed 
nothing  he  could  do.  The  old  master  was 
forever  beyond  his  help,  he  resolved  to  stand 
by  the  new  one.  They  were  sitting  together 
in  the  study  when  the  clock  struck  twelve  that 
night;  the  doctor  leaning,  still,  with  his  head 
upon  his  hands,  his  eyes  upon  the  open  pages 
of  his  Bible,  his  thoughts  with  his  absent  boy. 

"Could  he  be  implicated  in  that  ghastly 
crime,  his  boy,  his  Benjamin?"  was  the  re- 
frain of  their  monotonous  query.  And  yet  it 
looked  so  dark  against  them  all. 

To  Dr.  Marlowe,  the  old  negro  with  his 
many  years  of  service,  and  his  crown  of  snow, 
was  indeed  a  "nebber  dyin'  soul,"  committed 
to  his  care.  He  readily  believed  the  old  fel- 
low's story  of  the  scene  in  town  yesterday, 
which  he  had  left  too  early  to  witness  him- 
self, and  he  was  glad  his  son  had  acted  in  that 
matter  as  he  did.  Knowing  Uncle  Ben's  re- 
ligious tendencies,  he  gave  him  an  old  suit  of 


124  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

broadcloth  of  clerical  cut,  and  installed  him 
at  once  as  door-keeper — not  indeed  in  the 
house  of  the  Lord,  but  of  one  of  his  saintliest 
vicegerents. 

"Ben,"  said  the  doctor  at  last,  rising  with 
a  deep  sigh,  "I  must  try  to  get  some  rest  for 
to-morrow;  you  can  remain  here,  if  you  are 
willing,  a  little  longer  and  keep  the  light  burn- 
ing. Maybe  the  boy  will  come  before  morn- 
ing. If  you  fall  asleep  it  doesn't  matter,  but 
don't  let  the  light  go  out;  you  know  how  it 
stands  with  the  boy,  and  if  he  returns  and 
finds  the  house  in  darkness  it  may  seem  a  re- 
buke to  him, and  we  may  never  see  him  again." 

"Yas,  Mas'r  Duncan,"  replied  the  old  dar- 
key, "I'll  set  up  an'  wait    fur  de    dear  boy." 

There  was  a  holy  hush  in  the  atmosphere  of 
the  study  with  the  pictures  of  saints  and  pa- 
triarchs looking  benignly  from  the  walls;  the 
sacred  books  standing  on  their  shelves,  and 
the  huge  Bible  spread  open  upon  the  table. 
And  this  was  to  be  Uncle  Ben's  home  for  the 
remainder  of  his  life!  The  sacred  calm  of  it 
fell  upon  him.  He  had  been  through  so  much 
that  day  that  he  could  not  fully  realize  it  all. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 25 

The  man  whom  he  had  loved  and  served 
was  dead,  a  terrible  fulfillment  of  what  they 
had  lived  in  dread  of  so  long.  He  had  found 
the  old  Senora's  body  below  the  rocks  during 
the  day  and  made  her  a  grave  with  reverent 
hands  in  a  quiet  field  where  the  sweet  clover, 
instead  of  the  wild  pampas  grasses  of  the  South 
would  wave  over  her;  and  the  feeling,  half 
of  sorrow,  half  of  rest,  came  over  him,  that  his 
work  was  done.  If  only  the  boy  would  come, 
— surely,  after  the  horror,  it  would  all  be  well 
again. 

An  hour  later  he  arose,  trimmed  the  lamp 
afresh,  and  placed  it  nearer  to  the  window, 
singing  softly  to  himself  a  verse  of  one  of  his 
old  Methodist  hymns. 

*'  And  while  de  lamp  hoi's  out  to  bum 
De  viles'  sinner  may  return." 

Then  he  timidly  approached  the  big  Bible 
and  turned  the  pages  quietly,  looking  at  the 
pictures  over  his  spectacles.  There  was  no 
sound,  but  presently  he  raised  his  eyes  and 
saw  a  face  peering  in  through  the  window, 
and  a  beckoning  finger  called  him  to  the 
door;   the   face   was  ghostly    and   pale    as   a 


126  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

phantom  of  the  night,  but  he  knew  it;  he 
went  to  the  door  and  softly  opened  it. 

"For  God's  sake,  Uncle  Ben,  speak  low," 
the  voice  said,  "and  do  not  let  my  father  know 
that  I  am  here.      Come  with  me." 

They  went  together  down  a  path  to  where 
Walter  Marlowe's  companions  were  waiting 
under  the  shadow  of  a  clump  of  pines. 

"Mas'r  Walter, whar's  you  bin  so  long?  Yo* 
pa  frettin'  awful  kase  you  did'n  come  home," 
Ben  whispered  as  he  tried  to  keep  up  with  the 
young  man's  impatient  strides. 

Marlowe  halted  when  he  rejoined  his  friends 
and  turned  to  the  old  man.  "Uncle  Ben," 
he  said,  "I  was  your  friend  when  you  were  in 
trouble,  be  my  friend  now,  and  I  will  give 
you  your  freedom." 

"Bress  your  soul,  Mas'r  Walter,  I  don'  want 
no  more  freedom  dan  I's  got  in  de  good  doc- 
tor's house,  but  I'd  lay  down  my  life  dis 
minit  if  it  would  help  you  outen  any  trouble; 
'deed  I  would." 

"Then  tell  me  all  you  know  of  Major  Mc- 
Naughton." 

"Dead !"  cried  the  negro,  raising  both  hands; 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 27 

"dead!  done  murdered!  I  found  him  lyin'  dar 
dead  and  stiff  by  de  riber  dis  mornin'.  My 
poor  marster  done  killed,  Mas'r  Walter,  an' 
everbody  sayin'  as  how  some  o'  you  young 
men  took  an  'done  it.  An'  Honey,  she  don' 
do  nuffin  but  jes'  cry  'bout  him  all  day,  an' 
yo'  pa,  he  almos'  'stracted  kase  you  did'n 
come  home  and  clar  yourself.  I  knowed  it 
warn't  you,  Mas'r  Walter,  Iknow  it  warn't,  but 
I  tank  Gawd  you's  back  to  tell  'em  so.  Yo' 
pa  he  could'n  say  nuffin  kase  de  folks  all  say, 
why  dem  young  fellows  all  git  away  fur,  ef 
dey  aint  guilty?  But  now  yo's  cum  back  an' 
you  kin  tell  'em  yo'  didn'  do  it-.  Tank  Gawd  ! 
Tank  Gawd!" 

"But  listen,  Uncle  Ben,"  said  Marlowe,  inter- 
rupting his  loquacity  and  taking  him  silently 
by  the  arm.  "I  cannot  speak,  I  cannot  clear 
myself;  we  have  sworn  an  oath  to  keep  silent 
and  let  the  people  think  what  they  will;  do 
you  understand?" 

"Oh,  Lawd!  Mas'r  Walter,"  cried  the  negro 
astounded,  "you  ain't  gwine  to  tell  Honey 
you  did'n  kill  her  pa?" 

"Hush!"  said  Marlowe.      "I    must  think  of 


128  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

that  hereafter;  listen  to  me  now,  whether 
you  believe  me  guilty  or  not." 

"Me  tink  you  guilty,  Mas'r  Walter?  Gawd 
fo'gib  you  fur  sayin'dat!  I  know  some  o*  you 
young  men  dun  kill  my  poor  mas'r,  but  I 
know  'twant  you,  an'  if  everbody  in  de  wide 
yarth  turn  agin  you  I  gwine  to  stick  to  you, 
'deed  I  is!  I  j is'  hopin'  you  was  comin'  home 
to  clar  yoursef.  Judge  Napier,  he  was  here 
dis  ebenin  to  talk  to  your  pa  'bout  you  all." 

"What  did  they  say?     Quick!" 

"He  said  if  dere  warn't  no  witnesses  to  be 
found,  de  gran'  jury  could'n  git  a  bill  gin  no- 
body an'  de  matter  would  be  drapped." 

"Then  Uncle  Ben  will  be  the  one  to  keep 
us  posted,"  said  Randolph  King. 

"Will  you  promise  to  do  it,  Uncle  Ben?" 
asked  Marlowe. 

"  'Deed  I  will,  Mas'r  Walter,  you  know  I  do 
anyting  fur  you.  I  hates  powerful  bad  to  be 
shiel'n  de  man  what  murdered  my  poor  mas'r, 
but  ef  it  gwine  ter  help  you  outen  trouble  I 
do  eben  dat;   Gawd  knows  I  will." 

"Will  you  go  into  town  to-morrow  and 
find  out  how  things  are  and  let  us  know?" 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I2§ 

"Yas,  sah,  I  do  anyting  fur  you." 

"Then  where  can  you  meet  us  to-morrow 
night?"  inquired  Caldwell. 

Here  was  an  opportunity  to  make  himself 
important,  and  amid  all  his  deeper  emotions 
of  sorrow  and  anxiety  it  allured  the  old  fellow. 

"Lemme  see,"  he  said,  scratching  his  head, 
"lemme  deflect  a  minit,  kase  you  ha'  to  be 
powerful  keerful.  Mas'r  Walter  dun  bought  me 
from  de  trash,  and  beat  him  for  'sultin  me, 
an'  I  gwine  ter  stick  to  Mas'r  Walter  till  de 
las'  day  in  de  ebenin'." 

"Well,  then,  for  heaven's  sake,  hurry  up," 
urged  Holbrook,  "and  tell  us  your  plan!" 

"Well,  den,  in  de  fust  place  you  gem'men 
have  to  be  keerful  an  'don'  do  nufnn  rashinal, 
but  jes'  keep  away  to-morrer,  an'  I'll  sorter 
hang  roun'  an'  find  out  ef  dey'son  yer  track; 
an'  to-morrow  night  you  come  up  to  de  grave- 
yard an'  hide  away  so  nobody  caint  see  you 
from  de  road;  dey  wont  go  fro'  dar  in  de  dark; 
dey's  too  skeered;  an'  when  its  gittin'  kind 
o'  late,  an7  dere  ain't  nobody  much  gwine' 
long,  I  cum  by,  kinder  singin'  to  myself;  you 
listen  to  dat  song,  an'  ef  I's  singin'  a  song  o' 
9 


I3C  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

good  tidin's  an'  great  joy,  Mas'r  Walter, 
you'll  know  dar  ain't  no  evidence  'gin  you, 
an'  you  kin  all  go  home;  but  ef  I's  singin' 
sad  an'  mournful  like,  you  better  git  away  fur 
parts  unknown." 

And  so  it  was  arranged.  Marlowe  lingered 
a  moment  behind  the  others  and  asked  some- 
thing of  Uncle  Ben  in  an  undertone,  concern- 
ing Laurie;  he  did  not  wish  the  others  to  know 
what  it  was;  and  after  making  the  faithful 
creature  promise  not  to  let  his  father  know  of 
this  visit,  parted  from  him,  rejoined  his  friends 
and  withdrew  again  into  the  darkness. 


CHAPTER  X 

Hank  Staples  spent  Sunday  afternoon,  after 
he  had  heard  the  news,  skulking  about  the 
river  bank.  He  gnawed  his  finger  nails  hun- 
grily and  gave  other  signs  of  great  perturbation 
of  mind.  "His  day"  had  come,  sooner  than 
he  had  expected.  He  was  in  a  dire  strait  be- 
tween his  hatred  of  the  students,  especially 
Marlowe,  and  his  fear  of  them,  his  desire  to 
give  some  damning  testimony  against  them 
on  the  morrow,  for  which  he  had  enough  truth 
to  make  a  handle,  and  his  dread  of  the  ven- 
geance they  would  most  likely  take  upon  him 
for  such  an  act. 

They  were  bound   to   silence,    and    even  if 

they  should   return,    could    not  disprove    his 

statement,  but  who  was  to  preserve  him  from 

the  vengeance  of  the"M.K's"?  Could  he  only 

be  sure  they  had  gone  for  good,  that  was  what 

he  desired  above  all  things;    then   he    would 

accuse    Marlowe   to   Laurie    directly   as   her 
131 


x32  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

father's  murderer.  He  thought  that  but  for 
Marlowe  he  might  have  won  the  girl   himself. 

It  was  said  that  with  the  exception  of  the 
major,  Hank  Staples  had  not  a  friend;  but 
that  was  not  literally  true.  There  was  one 
other  who  loved  him  and  was  true  to  him  al- 
ways, when  others  cursed  and  reviled  him, 
keeping  his  cheerless  home  in  his  absence, 
and  greeting  him  with  a  cordial  welcome  when 
he  returned.  This  solitary  companion  bore 
him  company  this  afternoon,  perhaps  from  a 
certain  fellow  feeling,  being,  like  Hank  him- 
self, an  outcast,  by  all  despised — a  poor, 
skulking,  half-breed  dog. 

This  forlorn  creature  kept  close  to  his 
heels,  walking  when  he  walked,  sitting  on 
his  long  haunches  when  he  sat.  The  master 
had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  talking  to  his 
canine  friend,  which  was  just  one  better  than 
talking  to  himself;  the  dog  sitting  opposite 
him  with  his  lean  body,  and  his  huge  head  a 
little  to  one  side  like  a  stem  supporting  a 
flower,  a  look  of  starved  sagacity  on  his  feat- 
ures. He  was  sitting  thus,  listening  to  the 
pros  and  cons  of  the  case  Hank  was  putting  to 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 33 

him,  when  a  sudden  inspiration  came  upon 
the  master,  with  a  rush  of  delight;  he  ex- 
pressed it  by  giving  his  listener  a  kick  under 
the  jaw,  that  sent  him  across  the  fields,  yelp- 
ing with  pain.  He  knew  it  meant  "go  home" 
— that  was  his  usual  signal  of  dismissal. 

The  thought  which  occurred  to  the  two 
legged  cur  was  this,  and  he  acted  upon  it — 
he  would  give  only  as  much  testimony  as  was 
safe  at  present,  charging  no  one  distinctly, 
but  coloring  his  statements  so  that  they  would 
reflect  injuriously  on  all.  Then,  if  time 
elapsed  and  they  did  not  return,  proving  that 
he  had  nothing  to  fear,  he  could  make  a  fur- 
ther statement  accusing  Marlowe  directly  of 
the  deed,  stating  (which  would  have  a  tone  of 
plausibility)  that  he  had  been  deterred  from 
doing  so  at  first  through  mortal  fear  of  the 
friends. 

This  plan  arranged,  he  went  home  and  kept 
quiet  until  Monday  morning.  He  had  testi- 
fied before  the  coroner's  jury  that  he  had  been 
in  the  presence  of  the  deceased  and  the  six 
students  until  after  two  o'clock  on  Sunday 
morning.      He  gave  a  detailed  account  of  the 


134  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

mischief  perpetrated  by  them  in  the  town. 
He  went  on  to  state  that  he  left  them  because 
the  party  had  been  drinking  freely,  and  "went 
on  a  teasin'  an'  naggin'  the  major"  and  that 
he — Hank  Staples — "bein'  a  law-abidin'  citi- 
zen, and  not  wantin'  to  break  the  Sabbath- 
day,  jes'  clared  out  an  'left  'em." 

His  story,  in  some  parts  true,  was  a  jum- 
ble of  distorted  facts,  filled  with  innuendo 
calculated  to  create  the  strongest  suspicion 
against  the  students,  and  it  accomplished  its 
purpose. 

Judge  Napier  was  present;  he  said,  "My 
son  was  with  them,  but  if  the  crime  was  his, 
I  do  not  see  any  other  way  than  that  he  should 
suffer  for  it.  We  do  not  know  the  circum- 
stances, there  may  have  been  justifiable 
grounds;  but  let  them  come  forward,  I  say, 
and  make  their  own  defense." 

The  old  minister,  Dr.  Marlowe,  only  said, 
"The  Lord's  will  be  done!" 

The  students,  especially  Marlowe  and  Na- 
pier, were  intensely  popular,  but  Major  Mc- 
Naughton  also  had  many  friends  still;  and  a 
certain  element  demanded    that    an  example 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I35 

ot  one  of  that  lawless  band  be  held  up  to  the 
others.  A  warrant  was  issued  for  the  arrest 
of  the  six  students,  Harry  Napier,  Walter 
Marlowe,  Randolph  King,  Lewis  Holbrook, 
Ernest  Caldwell  and  Arthur  Dalton, 

Late  that  night  six  anxious  watchers,  con- 
cealed among  the  gravestones,  heard  the 
voice  of  the  old  man  singing  a  weird,  sweet 
melody;  he  passed  by  slowly  and  they  could 
hear  the  ominous  lines: 

"  Hark!  from  the  tombs  a  doleful  soun,' 
Mine  ears  attend  de  cry; 
Ye  libin'  men,  cum  view  de  groun' 
Whar  you  must  shortly  lie." 

And  before  the  echoes  died  on  the  air  there 
was  a  brief  good-bye,  a  silent  grip  of  the  hand 
and  a  hurried  mounting  of  swift  horses  that 
were  to  bear  their  riders,  east,  west,  and 
south,  far  from  their  homes  and  from  each 
other  before  the  morning  should  break.  For 
some  of  them  it  was  a  final  parting. 


CHAPTER  XI 

It  was  about  three  days  after  the  events 
described  in  the  last  chapter.  Poor  Laurie 
(for  it  seemed  as  though  one  should  not  call 
her  by  that  childish  pet  name  now,  since  her 
matriculation  in  the  great  mystery  of  grief;) 
had  wept  her  tears  all  away,  she  thought,  and 
sat  drooping  by  the  open  window  like  a  pale 
blossom  overtaken  and  beaten  down  by  win- 
ter storms  when  it  had  looked  for  an  early 
summer. 

Uncle  Ben  had  given  her  a  short  parting 
message  from  Marlowe  bidding  her  think  as 
kindly  of  him  as  she  could,  and  saying  that 
he  would  do  all  in  his  power  to  see  her  or 
communicate  with  her  soon. 

He  had  been  enjoined  to  say  that  and  that 

alone,  but  the  poor  old  fellow  could  not  keep 

his  secret  from  her,  and  violated  his  promise 

so  far  as   to   let  her   know  her  lover   had  left 

the   country.      She   heard   him    dully,    being 
136 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 37 

stupefied  with  grief;  the  measure  of  her  en- 
durance  then  was  full,  and  could  not  be  added 
to.  When  they  brought  her  dead  home,  alone, 
she  had  felt  the  keenest  pang  her  heart  could 
know,  and  any  other  misfortune  seemed  but 
to  lengthen  out  the  tale. 

No  voice  accused  Walter  in  her  hearing, 
but  she  divined,  with  that  ingenuity  for  self- 
torture  which  belongs  to  love,  what  they  were 
saying  elsewhere.  She  did  not  think  him 
guilty  of  her  father's  murder;  but  she  had  not 
believed  that  he  would  break  his  promise  to 
her  that  fatal  day,  and  yet  he  had  done  it, 
and  was  now  a  fugitive ;  why  had  he  gone  if 
innocent? 

The  old  nurse  eyed  her  askance  as  she  sat 
there  silent  and  listless,  her  face  looking 
pale  above  her  somber  mourning  dress,  and 
wished  that  something  would  come,  if  it  were 
only  a  fresh  reminder  of  her  loss,  to  rouse  her 
pet  from  this  deadly  apathy ;  it  frightened  her. 

The  bitter  message  of  her  son's  disappear- 
ance had  brought  the  proud  mother  home  a 
heart-broken  woman.  The  unhappiness  of 
the  past  months  had  culminated  in  this !   The 


I38  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

head  that  held  itself  so  high  was  bowed  at 
last.  The  nerves  so  cruelly  tried  through 
that  new  estrangement  could  not  bear  the 
shock,  and  the  wretched  woman  succumbed  to 
an  utter  prostration,  bodily  and  mentally.  In 
a  few  days  she  was  a  wreck  of  the  woman  all 
C —  had  known  and  stood  a  little  in  awe  of, 
for  twenty-five  years. 

In  the  hush  of  her  darkened  chamber,  she 
went  over  the  last  few  months  in  bitter  self- 
accusation,  the  estrangement  which  had  been 
her  own  doing,  her  hard  pride  that  had 
stood  between  her  darling  boy  and  his  wish. 
Once  she  had  awakened  from  a  horrible  night- 
mare and  could  not  afterward  shake  off  the 
premonition  it  left  with  her.  Walter  had  ap- 
peared to  her,  pale  and  haggard  with  the 
weird  exaggeration  of  dreams,  and  told  her 
that  the  deed  was  his,  and  that  he  did  it  be- 
cause he  knew  that  she  would  never  give  his 
darling  a  kind  welcome  while  the  plebeian 
father  lived.  She  imparted  her  dreadto  none, 
but  that  face,  with  its  hunted  look,  never  left 
her. 

Uncle  Ben,  free  to  roam  whither  he  would, 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 39 

Spent  a  great   part  of  his  time  on   the    road 
between  the  two  houses. 

Aunt  Viney  saw  him  coming  up  the  path 
and  hailed  his  advent  more  gladly  than  ever 
now ;  the  dead  silence  of  the  house  was  appall- 
ing' to  her.  She  stood  in  the  kitchen  door 
to  welcome  him.  He  took  a  seat  on  a  bench 
under  the  shade  trees  and  began  fanning 
himself  with  his  hat. 

"I  got  'portant  business  s'mornin',"  he  said. 
"I  met  dat  Hank  Staples  in  de  road,  and  he 
says  fur  to  tell  Honey  he  got  to  hab  a  intervoo 
wid  her  'mejitly  on  pressin'  business.  I  'lowed 
she  would'n  want  to  be  talkin'  to  him,  but 
Mas'r  Duncan,  he  say,  'Tell  her  she  better 
see  him,  kase  he  kin  make  heap  o'  trouble  ef 
he's  min*  to'." 

"Yes,"  said  Aunt  Viney,  "let's  hear  what 
Hank's  got  to  say;  I  ain't  got  no  conference 
in  him,  but  ef  he  know  anyting  fur  our  good, 
we  better  hear  it." 

To  this  Laurie  reluctantly  consented,  and 
accordingly  the  visitor  soon  presented  him- 
self. He  entered  the  room  with  a  shuffling 
step,  his  hat  in  his   hand.      He  was   always  a 


I4O  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

little  less  confident  and  aggressive  in  Laurie's 
presence  than  elsewhere. 

"Now  look  here,  ladies,"  began  Hank,  "this 
meetin's  called  fur  the  good  of  all  parties. 
I've  got  news  of  great  importance,  and  if  lam 
treated  squar',  well;  if  not, — not  well;  there- 
fore which?" 

"Stop  dat  nonsense,  Hank  Staples,  an'don' 
you  try  to  be  m'sterious  wid  me;  go  long  an' 
tell  de  trufe — if  you  kin." 

"Fust  and  fo'most  then,"  continued  Mr. 
Staples,  taking  his  seat  on  the  southeast  corner 
of  the  chair  and  trying  to  look  at  ease, "I  want 
to  ax  what  is  the  young  lady's  feelin's  tow'rds 
Walter  Marlowe  now?" 

"The  same  as  ever,"  answered  Laurie;  then 
she  looked  at  him  more  directly,  and  asked, 
"What  is  that  to  you?" 

This  was  a  little  damping  at  the  outset. 

"Circumstances  alters  cases,  as  they  say, 
miss,"  he  went  on;  "you  seem  to  furgit  that 
your  pa  has  been  murdered;  Walter  Marlowe 
was  with  the  crowd  what  killed  him,  and  ef 
he  had  a'  loved  you  proper  he  would  ha'saved 
his  life;  see?" 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I4I 

"You  do  not  know  but  that  he  did  try,  and 
was  overpowered  by  the  others;  you  say  you 
left  them  at  the  bridge.  Do  you  know  any- 
thing about  it?" 

"Wall,  I  know  a  heap  more'n  you  think,  and 
what  I've  got  to  say  is  brief  and  to  the  pint. 
I've  long  felt  that  me  and  Miss  Laurie  was 
made  fur  one  'nuther,  and  now  the  way  is  cl'ar. 
Thar  ain't  nobody  to  consult  'bout  it  but  the 
parties  to  thecontrac'  and  Aunt  Viney,  as  it 
were.  Now,  before  I  perceed  any  further,  I 
wants  a  answer  to  my  proposition,  which 
is  the  followin' — that  we  git  married  at 
wunst." 

A  shudder  of  horror  and  contempt  was 
Laurie's  only  reply,  but  Aunt  Viney  was  more 
ready  of  speech;  still,  she  remembered  the 
minister's  warning. 

"Hank  Staples,"  she  said,  placing  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  which  signified  that  she  meant 
what  she  said,  "'fore  we  goes  any  furder,  we 
wants  ter  know  what  you's  gvvine  ter  testify 
afore  us;  ef  it's  the  same  what  you  said  'fore 
de  cor'ner's  jury,  I  don'  see  no  use  in  yer  say- 
in'  it  agin,  an'  ef  its  sumpin  differ' nt,  denyo's 


I42  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

a  liar,  and  nobody  don'  know  which  tale  to 
put  no  conference  in." 

Hank  Staples  arose  from  his  chair  with  an 
evil  look  upon  his  face.  He  saw  that  Laurie 
looked  at  him  now  with  loathing.  An  ex- 
pression of  devilish  cunning,  of  revengeful 
animosity,  distorted  his  features. 

"Do  I  understan'  that  I  am  rejected;  that 
my  kind  offer  has  been  trampled  under  foot?" 

Laurie  only  turned  from  him  and  looked  out 
of  the  window,  and  Aunt  Viney  said,  pointing 
to  the  door,  "Go  'long!" 

"All  right,  then,"  gesticulating  with  his 
slouched  hat,  "jist  look  out  fur  me  !  I  knows 
enough  to  hang  that  fine  sweetheart  of  yourn, 
and  I'll  tell  it  too,  if  I'm  shot  fur  it." 

"He  has  gone,"  said  Laurie;  "none  of  us  will 
ever  see  him  again — I  think." 

"Well,  thar's  whar  you  make  a  mistake 
miss;  the  others  is  gone,  I  reck'n,  but  Mar- 
lowe's a  hangin'  roun'  here  to  git  a  chance  to 
see  you  'fore  he  goes." 

Her  listlessness  was  gone  in  an  instant; 
she  started  up  and  a  bright  flush  of  color 
leapt  to  her  cheeks.     "How   do  you   know? 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I43 

where    is    he?"    she  questioned  him  eagerly. 

"Don't  tell  no  more  lies,  Hank  Staples," 
interposed  Aunt  Viney;  "nobody  would'n  be- 
lieve numn  you  say  cep'n  they  knowed  it  'fore- 
han'." 

"What  do  you  say  to  that,  young  lady?" 
said  Hank,  turning  to  Laurie.  "Is  them  your 
sentiments?' 

"Oh,  Hank,  let  us  be  friends."  All  at  once 
life  seemed  worth  living  again,  and  she  offered 
her  hand  in  token  of  friendship. 

He  misunderstood  her,  seized  her  hand 
eagerly  and  drew  her  to  him-,  attempting  to 
kiss  her. 

She  retreated  with  a  scream  toward  Aunt 
Viney. 

"Oh,  mammy!  do  not  let  him  touch  me! 
the  wretch!" 

"G' way  fum  yere !  you  miser'ble  white  trash, 
or  I  break  you'  head  wid  de  tongs!"  shouted 
Aunt  Viney,  putting  one  arm  around  Laurie, 
and  seizing  the  aforesaid  article  with  the 
other. 

"All  right — all  right,  ladies,"  called  out  Mr. 
Staples,  who  had  rapidly  retreated  to  the  door; 


144  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"ef  you  want  us  to  be  enemies  that  suits  me 
jest  as  well;"  and  with  an  oath  upon  his  lips 
he  left  the  house.  He  went  home  with  thoughts 
more  bitter  than  ever  against  Marlowe;  he 
knew  now  how  Laurie  loved  his  rival,  but  he 
did  not  despair  of  winning  her  yet.  That 
night  he  walked  to  the  house  of  Sheriff  Ben- 
son, about  half  a  mile  from  the  town.  It  was 
about  ten  o'clock  when  he  was  admitted. 
After  some  preliminary  conversation  Hank 
said,  "Sheriff,  you  got  a  warrant  fur  the  arrest 
of  all  the  men  what  was  with  the  major  the 
night  he  was  killed?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  sheriff,  "for  all  and  each  of 
them,  and  one  for  you  too." — It  was  bedtime 
and  he  wished  his  visitor  to  go; — "I've  had 
my  eye  on  you  ever  since  Monday." 

"What  you  got  a  warrant  fur  me  fur?  I 
ain't  done  nothin'." 

"Perhaps  not,  but  we  shall  need  you  as  a 
witness." 

"S'posen  it  should  turn  out  that  I  was  with 
the  boys  when  the  old  man  was  killed,  and 
saw  the  whole  perceedin'  ?" 

"Then  you  would  be  particeps  criminis  in 
the    murder." 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I45 

"Golly!  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  that;  how 
long  would  a  fellow  have  to  go  to  jail  fur  that?" 

"That  depends." 

"Say,  sheriff,  give  me  a  chaw  tobaccer." 

The  plug  was  handed  hi 

"Would  you  like  to  ketch  one  of  them  fel- 
lows, sheriff?" 

"That's  my  business— that's,  what  these 
warrants  are  for." 

"All  right;  I'll  put  you  on  the  track  of  one 
of  'em  to-night,  if  you'll  promise  to  keep  me 
outen  any  trouble." 

If  you  become  state's  evidence  of  course 
you'll  be  protected;  but,  Hank,  you  are  such 
a  liar  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while  to  follow 
any  clew  you  would  set  us  on." 

"You  jist  wait,  and  see  ef  I  don't  show  you 
one  of  'em  purty  soon." 

"All  right  then,"  continued  the  sheriff;  he 
began  to  think  perhaps  there  was  something 
in  the  fellow's  head  more  than  he  had  told  on 
Monday.  "If  we  catch  your  man  I'll  give  you 
two  hundred, — that's  the  reward  that's  of- 
fered; and  if  it's  a  false  alarm  I'll  lock  you  up 
for  a  month.      Do  you  agree  to  that?" 

"Give  me  a  drink  o'  whisky,  sheriff." 


I46  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

The  whisky  was  ordered  and  when  the 
negro  boy  brought  it,  the  sheriff  said  to  him: 
"Jim,  go  over  to  Mr.  Bob  Terry's  and  tell  him 
to  come  here  right  away." 

Mr.  Staples  helped  himself  and  said:  "Sheriff, 
s'posen  I  was  to  prove — I  aint  swearin'  now, 
am  I?" 

"No,  I'll  tell  you  when  you  are  in  danger." 

"S'posen  I  could  prove  who  killed  the  old 
man,  could  you  pertect  me  from  the  law,  and 
the  friends  of  the  feller  what  done  it?" 

"I  think  I  could." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  think  it  over;"  taking  an- 
other sip  from  his  glass  of  whisky.  "Why, 
Bob,  how're  you?  You  must  a  come  on  a  run. 
It's  a  good  thing  you  come,  Bob,  far  we'll 
want  some  fighters  in  the  crowd  to-night; 
I'm  a  goin'  to  'stonish  this  yere  town  fur 
oncet." 

"Terry,"  said  the  sheriff,  "I  want  you  to 
swear  Mr.  Staples  and  take  his  testimony." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Terry,  "got  a  statement  to 
make,  eh?" 

Hank's  answer  was  a  shrewd  wink  of  his  left 
eye. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I47 

Deponent  took  the  oath  and  proceeded: 
"Las'  night  I  followed  Unc'  Ben  down  to  the 
swamp;  I  thought  he  was  looking  fur  some 
'possum  traps  what  he  had  thar  las'  winter; 
and  I  thought  I  mought  as  well  find  out  whar 
they  wuz;  when  he  got  down  close  to  the 
river  bank  he  gin  a  little  whistle  and  what 
yer  think  come  to  meet  him!" 

"What!  you  don't  mean  to  say  he's  raising 
a  litter  o'  pups  in  the  swamp?" 

"No  'twarnt  no  dog,"  resumed  Hank  solemn- 
ly, "it  were  a  man!" 

"Go  on,"  said  Terry. 

"The  man  jumped  in  the  river  with  his 
clothes  all  on,  and  swum  over  to  Unc'  Ben. 
I  crep'  up  close  as  I  could,  'thout  bein'  seen, 
and  listened  to  what  they  wuz  sayin'.  The 
long  and  short  of  it  was  that  Unc' Ben  was  to 
fix  up  things  so's  Marlowe  (that's  who  'twas) 
could  come  up  to-night  at  one  o'clock  and  see 
Laurie  McNaughton.  He  kep  a  sayin'  ef  he 
could  see  her,  he  knowed  he  could  git  her  to 
go  with  him;  and  ef  she  wouldn't  then  he'd  git 
away  fur  good  and  she'd  never  see  him  again." 

"At   one   o'clock   to-night!"  exclaimed  the 


I48  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

sheriff.  "That  will  do,  Hank;"  he  said  sternly 
and  rose  from  the  table.  "If  this  turns  out 
to  be  true,  you  will  get  your  two  hundred 
dollars" — (he  might  have  said  "your  revenge 
too.")     "Come,  gentlemen." 

The  three  went  out  together,  and  summon- 
ing three  others,  the  sheriff  had  them  take 
their  revolvers  and  proceed  to  the  vicinity  of 
the  McNaughton  house.  They  were  posted 
in  convenient  places  commanding  every  exit 
from  the  house,  and  Hank  Staples  was  to  give 
them  notice  when  the  game  was  to  be  trapped. 


CHAPTER  XII 

At  an  hour  past  midnight  a  tapping  was 
heard  at  the  window  of  the  dining-room  of  the 
McNaughton  house.  It  was  a  low,  cautious 
rap,  and  Aunt  Viney  went  softly  to  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  out.  There  was  no  moon 
and  the  window  was  very  high  from  the 
ground,  the  house  being  a  typical  Southern 
one,  built  high  and  enclosed  with  a  sort  of 
lattice  work,  in  order  to  let  the  air  blow  under 
it.  She  saw  the  figures  of  men  on  the  ground, 
but  could  not  at  first  distinguish  them.  One 
of  them  kept  in  the  shadow  of  some  lilac 
bushes. 

"Who's  dar?"  she  inquired  in  that  high 
whisper  which  says  so  plainly,  "I'm  scared; 
but  you  shan't  know  it." 

"It's  Unc'  Ben,  don't  be  skeered;"  an- 
swered the  familiar  voice,   also  in  a  whisper. 

"  'Fore     Gawd!"    ejaculated    Aunt   Viney. 

"What  yer  doin'  yere  dis  time  o'  night?" 
149 


I5O  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"Hesh,  Sis'  Viney — talk  low;  I's  got 
Honey's  sweetheart  wid  me." 

"  'Fore  Gawd!"  she  said  again;  which  was 
her  ultimatum  of  astonishment — "Mas'r  Wal- 
ter, dat  you?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer,  as  the  other  form 
stepped  out  into  the  lighted  space.  "I  must 
see  Laurie  now;  I  have  not  a  minute  to  spare; 
tell  her  I  must  speak  with  her  for  one  mo- 
ment." 

"Well,  ef  you's  cum  back  to  clar  yo'self 
it'll  be  all  right,  an'  why  can't  you  wait  tell 
in  de  mornin',  fur  to  see  her?  Dis  ain't  no 
time  fur  a  gem 'man  to  call  on  a  young  lady." 

"No,  Sis'  Viney,"  spoke  up  Uncle  Ben,  "de 
young  mas'r's  in  danger  an'  he  ain't  got  no 
time  to  stay;  ef  he  don'  see  her  to-night,  he 
ain't  gwine  to  see  her  no  mo'." 

"Yes,"  said  Walter, coming  closer  and  look- 
ing up,  so  that  even  in  the  uncertain  light 
she  saw  how  pale  his  face  was,  "that  is  true; 
I  cannot  stay  till  morning;  for  God's  sake,  go, 
quickly !" 

"Oh,  my  Lawd,  come  in  den,"  she  groaned, 
disappearing  from  the    window  and    opening 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I5I 

the  door;  "but  keep  quiet,  so's  not  to  skeer 
de  chile;  you  wait  yere  tell  I  goes  an'  wake 
her  up  kin'  o'  gentle  like." 

Marlowe  and  Uncle  Ben  entered  silently. 
When  Aunt  Viney  opened  the  door  of  Laurie's 
room,  she  found  the  girl  still  kneeling  where 
she  had  fallen  asleep  worn  out,  with  a  prayer 
upon  her  lips.  A  light  shadow  of  slumber 
had  overtaken  her  and  her  head  had  fallen 
forward;  her  arms  were  stretched  out  across 
the  bed. 

The  old  woman  raised  a  soft,  curling  strand 
of  hair  and  kissed  it,  bending  over  her  lovingly. 

Laurie,  roused  by  the  light  touch,  started 
up,  a  frightened  look  in  her  wide-opened 
eyes. 

"Now  don'  you  be  skeered,  Honey,"  Aunt 
Viney  began;  "somebody's  come." 

The  girl  swept  past  her  like  a  bird;  in  a 
moment  she  had  crossed  the  hallway  and 
reached  the  room  where  Walter  stood.  She 
paused  an  instant  in  the  doorway;  the  room 
was  in  obscurity  and  she  could  not  discern  his 
whereabouts. 

He  called  her  name  and  stepping    into  the 


152  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

dim  light  of  the  window  held  out  his  arms  to 
her;  in  a  moment  she  was  clasped  in  their 
embrace.  He  had  thought  to  kneel  and  sue 
for  grace  to  speak  to  her,  and  here  she  was 
upon  his  breast,  as  in  the  morning  when  he 
had  gone  from  her  with  high  hopes  in  his 
heart.  Old  Ben  bowed  his  head  and  wept  in 
the  shadow. 

Her  face  was  hidden  on  her  lover's  breast, 
his  arms  clasping  her  close,  close  to  his  heart. 

She  did  not  see  that  the  right  arm  was 
bandaged,  and  that  he  moved  it  with  great 
pain.  He  was  there  with  his  arms  about  her, 
that  was  enough.  The  precious  minutes  were 
flying  fast,  but  neither  could  find  heart  to 
speak.  The  emotion  of  meeting  made  silence 
between  them. 

He  bent  his  head  in  a  heart-broken  gesture 
and  touched  her  hair  lightly  with  his  lips. 

"Oh!  Walter,"  she  sobbed,  after  a  little, 
"I  have  been  so  unhappy;  why  did  you  stay 
away  from  me  ?  They  brought  him  home  white 
and  dead,  Walter;  and  people  said  you  were 
with  his  murderers;  but  you  will  tell  them 
who  did  the  cruel  thing — that  it  was  not  you; 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 53 

you  will  tell  them  to-morrow,  won't  you, 
Walter?" 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  closely  into 
his  eyes  in  the  abandon  of  her  excitement. 

He  turned  from  the  intense  gaze  for  an  in- 
stant, and  clenched  his  teeth  in  the  agony  of 
his  soul.  "Listen,  Laurie — my  darling,  my 
love;"  he  cried  in  a  passionate  voice,  kneel- 
ing at  her  feet  and  pressing  her  hands  to  his 
lips — "I  cannot  clear  myself;  I  cannot  say  it 
was  not  I;  forgive  me,  dear,  if  you  can;  be 
patient  and  listen  to  me  a  little.  I  tried — upon 
my  honor,  I  tried  to  keep  my  promise  to  you 
that  terrible  day,  but  circumstances  were 
hard  against  me." 

He  felt  her  hands  grow  cold  within  his  and 
tremble;  he  looked  up  and  saw  a  spasm  of 
fear  cross  her  face. 

"O  Walter,  Walter,  what  do  you  mean? 
O,  you  were  all  the  world  to  me!  What  do 
you  mean  by  what  you  are  saying?" 

"My  darling,  it  means  that  if  you  love  me, 
if  I  am  more  to  you  than  aught  else,  as  you 
say,  you  will  come  with  me  to-night —now, 
without  a  moment's  delay,    and    trust  in  me. 


154  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

I  can  explain  nothing  now — I  am  bound  by 
my  word  of  honor  to  keep  silent.  Try  to  trust 
me,  Laurie,  and  come  before  it  is  too  late;  I 
am  in  danger  if  I  stay  a  minute  too  long; 
Uncle  Ben  has  been  to  my  stables  and  brought 
fast  horses  for  us  to  ride;  they  are  waiting  for 
us  down  in  the  swamp  road;  come,  love,  let 
us  go." 

He  had  risen  and  was  gently  urging  her 
towards  the  door;  his  eyes  glittered  with  ex- 
citement; she  yielded  to  the  fascination  of 
his  voice  and  was  allowing  herself  to  be  led 
when  old  Viney's  voice  called  from  out  of  the 
obscurity  of  the  room,  "Don'  yo'  go,  Honey, 
don'  you  go,  till  he  tell  yo'who  tuk  an'  killed 
yo'  pa." 

The  voice  brought  her  back  to  the  present; 
she  drew  her  hands  from  his  grasp  and  stood 
wringing  them  in  helpless  misery. 

"O  Walter,  I  cannot  go;"  she  cried;  "if 
you  are  innocent  stay  here  and  defend  your- 
self." 

"You  think  me  guilty?" 

"O,  no,. no,  forgive  me;  I  do  not  believe 
it;   but  tell  me  who  it  was  that  Killed  my  dear 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 55 

father;  I  know  it  was  not  you;  only  tell  me 
with  your  own  lips  that  you  had  no  hand  in 
that  cruel  deed,  and  I  will  not  ask  you  any- 
thing more;  I  will  go  with  you,  and  I  will  be- 
lieve you  though  all  the  world  should  swear 
that  you  were  guilty." 

"No,  Laurie,  I  cannot;  but  no  one  will 
ever  swear  that  I  am  guilty,  we  have  already 
sworn  to  be  silent.  I  have  no  choice,  for 
every  man  will  keep  that  oath,  would  have 
his  tongue  burned  out  before  he  would  turn 
state's  evidence." 

He  took  her  hand  again,  and  drew  her 
towards  the  door.  Once  more  she  implored 
him: 

"O  Walter,  I  will  not  ask  you  to  tell  on 
the  others;  only  tell  me  that  it  was  not  you." 

"I  cannot!" 

"You  cannot  say  that?  Then  God  forgive 
you,  Walter!" 

He  stepped  toward  her  again,  and  for  the 
first  time  she  saw  the  bandages  on  his  arm, 
and  that  there  were  stains  of  blood  still  upon 
them. 

"Look!   Look!"  she    shrieked,  cowering  in 


156  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

terror  on  Aunt  Viney's  breast,  "the  blood  on 
your  arm!" 

Aunt  Viney  caught  the  falling  figure  in  her 
arms  and  turned  angrily  upon  Marlowe. 

"Go  'way  now, ef  you's  satisfied!"  she  cried, 
"You's  done  broke  my  baby's  heart,  you  is!" 

"All  is  over  now,"  he  cried,  unheeding  the 
old  woman's  words  and  taking  the  little 
nerveless  hand  in  his;  "she  will  forget  me,  or 
think  of  me  only  with  horror.  Take  care  of 
her, — I  cannot  stay,  maybe  lean  come  again; 
I  do  not  know;  if  not,  good-bye — O  my  dar- 
ling, good-bye  forever!" 

Uncle  Ben  came  up  from  his  post  of  obser- 
vation and  touched  Marlowe  on  the  arm,  say- 
ing something  to  him  quickly  in  a  whisper. 
He  hurried  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open;  too 
late — every  avenue  of  escape  was  guarded  by 
men  with  pistols  cocked  and  ready  to  receive 
him. 

He  saw  that  retreat  was  impossible,  and 
walked  out  upon  the  balcony  determined  to 
sell  his  life  as  dearly  as  possible.  He  was 
driven  to  desperation  at  last.  He  recognized 
Hank  Staples  skulking  behind  the  other  men, 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  157 

and  knew  that  he  was  the  informant  who  had 
betrayed  him.  He  drew  his  revolver  with  his 
left  hand,  and  aimed  it  at  his  enemy;  but 
Uncle  Ben  was  close  at  his  side,  and  before 
he  could  fire,  pulled  down  his  arm. 

"Stop,  Mas'r  Walter!"  cried  the  old  fellow 
clinging  to  him  with  both  hands;  "does  you 
want  to  die  a  murderer's  def  anyhow  fur 
killin'  dat  trash?  Tink  o'  Honey — tink  o'  yo' 
folks,  an'  wait — de  Lawd,  he  gwine  to  bring 
it  all  right— 'deed  he  will!" 

After  the  first  impulse  of  wrath  at  behold- 
ing his  old  enemy — the  man  who  had  pre- 
sumed to  love  Laurie — among  his  captors,  he 
felt  the  other  impulse  revive  in  him,  to  live 
for  her  sake,  even  yet.  He  delivered  his 
weapons  to  the  sheriff,  and  submitted  quietly 
to  arrest.  When  Laurie  recovered  conscious- 
ness, he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

There  was  never  a  case  in  the  county  of 
N —  that  created  so  much  excitement  as  that 
in  which  Walter  Marlowe  was  tried  for  the 
murder  of  Marshall  McNaughton. 

There  were  few  who  believed  him  person- 
ally guilty.  His  manner  nonplused  his  own 
counsel.  His  mother  sent  a  message  from 
her  sick  room,  imploring  him  to  make  the 
best  defense  he  could;  and  it  would  be  hard 
to  describe  poor  Laurie's  agony  of  mind, 
when  she  discovered  that  she  had  detained 
him  by  her  indecision  and  caused  him  to  be 
captured.  It  soon  transpired  that  the  strange 
silence  of  the  prisoner  was  in  accordance  with 
the  oath  of  the  "M.  K's,"  to  which  all  of  the 
missing  party  had  belonged;  and  this  strange 
oath  might  still  have  accomplished  its  end, 
but  for  an  element  they  had  not  counted  up- 
on— Hank  Staples  and  his  enmity. 

The    circumstances    that    looked   so    hard 

153 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 59 

against  Marlowe,  his  refusal  to  make  an  ex- 
planation, and  the  high  standing  he  held  in 
the  community,  created  such  a  perfect  bal- 
ance in  the  jury's  mind,  that  it  only  required 
a  touch  to  turn  them  to  the  one  side  or  the 
other.  Hank  Staples'  testimony  was,  in  the 
absence  of  any  other,  sufficient  to  turn  the 
scale  against  the  accused. 

In  the  meantime,  the  interest  for  and  against 
the  young  man  was  working  up  the  citizens 
of  C —  to  a  white  heat  of  excitement.  As  the 
time  of  trial  drew  on  the  animosity  between 
the  two  factions  became  more  marked.  The 
blue  blood  of  the  state  was  feverish.  Old 
men  who  had  not  carried  a  weapon  for  years 
took  their  derringers  from  the  drawer  when 
they  went  into  town. 

Ladies  who  had  been  close  friends  quar- 
reled over  the  reputation  of  the  men  under 
indictment,  and  became  enemies.  The  pris- 
oner was  the  only  one  who  had  nothing  to 
say. 

His  silence  alienated  many  of  the  disinter- 
ested who  had  expected  that  he  would  speedily 
clear  himself. 


l6o  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

The  heart-broken  mother,  pale  and  ema- 
ciated, came  to  the  prison  every  day,  as  soon 
as  she  was  able.  She  denounced  her  own 
conduct  towards  him  during  the  past  months 
and  humbled  her  pride,  promising  to  make 
reparation  to  the  orphan  girl,  and  receive  her 
as  his  wife  with  all  kindness,  if  he  would  only 
defend  himself — to  all  of  which  he  could  only 
reply,  turning  away,  his  heart  sick  within 
him: 

"I  cannot!     I  cannot!" 

Laurie  came,  too,  and  it  was  a  kind  of  relief 
when  the  day  of  trial  drew  near,  for  he  felt 
unable  to  endure  their  entreaties  longer. 

Dr.  Marlowe  said  to  him,  "My  son,  if  this 
is  any  foolish  punctilio  which  is  sealing  your 
lips,  remember  the  pain  it  is  giving  your 
mother  and  the  girl  who  loves  you;  but,  if 
you  feel  that  your  honor  is  really  pledged  to 
this  course,  then  remember  only  that  a  man 
must  be  always  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman." 

It  grew  to  be  a  matter  of  much  speculation 
whether  he  would  speak  or  not;  and  with  the 
citizens  in  this  state  of  mind,  the  appointed 
time  for  the  trial  drew  on. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOT  l6l 

The  afternoon  sun  was  striking  a  few  bars 
of  gold  through  the  grating  of  Marlowe's  pris- 
on, when  the  door  opened  and  let  in  a  blaze 
of  light.  The  prisoner  started  up  and  raised 
his  hand  to  shade  his  eyes  from  the  unwonted 
glare.  The  door  had  closed  again  before  he 
knew  who  had  entered;  by  that  time,  Carlo's 
paws  were  upon  his  breast  and  a  silky  head 
close  to  his  own;  then  he  saw  his  mother  and 
Laurie  come  towards  him,  and  he  knew  they 
had  come  to  make  their  last  appeal  against 
his  resolve. 

They  begged  him  to  promise  that  he  would 
speak  to-morrow,  and  name  the  murderer. 
He  was  worn  out  with  the  conflict  of  emotions 
and  felt  that  he  could  endure  no  more. 

"Dear  mother — dear  Laurie;"  he  said,  tak- 
ing a  hand  of  each,  and  turning  his  weary  eyes 
from  one  to  the  other — "you  do  not  know 
what  you  are  doing;  listen  to  me;  what  you 
urge  me  to  do,  I  tell  you,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  is  impossible;  I  have  no  option  in  the 
matter;  I  am  bound  by  a  bond  which  every 
man  holds  sacred,  to  keep  silent,  and  let 
things  go  as  they  will;   I  can  do  nothing.    Do 

// 


l62  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

not  urge  me  any  more.  Let  us  hope  for  the 
best,  it  cannot  be  that  you  innocent  ones 
are  to  suffer  much  more  for  me." 

He  did  not  feel  the  confidence  he  attempted 
to  inspire  the  women  with,  and  his  mother 
was  not  deceived. 

"And  what  of  this  bond?"  she  cried  excit- 
edly; "is  there  no  bond  between  you  and  me, 
that  forbids  a  son  to  break  his  mother's  heart? 
And  this  girl  whom  you  have  said  you  loved, 
— do  you  owe  more  to  that  foolish  oath  than 
to  her?  Beware,  boy,  how  you  trample  upon 
your  mother's  prayer!  Look!  my  pride  is 
crushed,  I  kneel  to  you." 

She  was  half  beside  herself  with  her  mental 
and  bodily  suffering.  She  fell  upon  her  knees, 
sobbing  hysterically. 

"And  so  do  I!"  cried  Laurie,  kneeling  also; 
"Have  pity  on  us,  dear  Walter,  and  save  your- 
self for  our  sake — we  love  you  so." 

He  sprang  up,  pale  as  death,  and  turned 
his  face  to  the  wall;  it  was  the  first  time  he 
had  broken  down.  He  folded  his  arms  against 
the  stone  wall,  and  bowed  his  head  upon 
them.     He  had  thought  this  conflict  over,  and 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  163 

here  was  the  worst  ordeal  to  come  yet.  For 
an  instant,  he  was  almost  ready  to  sacrifice 
everything  to  those  two  women  who  loved 
him — and  then,  swift  as  lightning,  came  the 
after  thought — would  one  of  the  others  break 
that  oath  of  the  mid-knights,  foolish  as  it  had 
been  to  take  it? 

He  felt  that  they  would  not;  it  had  been  a 
point  of  honor  with  them  so  long;  and  should 
he  be  the  first  to  break  it?  How  could  he  ever 
meet  one  of  them  in  after  years  with  such  a 
shadow  upon  him?  No,  it  was  wrong,  per- 
haps, to  take  that  pledge,  but  having  taken  it 
he  must  keep  it  to  the  end.  He  was  silent 
so  long  they  thought  they  had  gained  their 
point.  The  mother  came  to  him  and  touched 
his  elbow — "Have  you  decided?"  she  asked 
tremulously — "think  of  it,  they  will  send  you 
back  to  prison,  and  disgrace  you,  perhaps.  O! 
God!  they  will  hang  you,  if  you  do  not  speak, 
do  not  tell  them  that  it  was  not  you.  No  one 
will  suffer  by  it;  they  are  far  away  and  will 
never  return;    why  should  you  bear  it  all?" 

"O,  mother,  mother!"  he  murmured,  turn- 
ing to  her  and  raising    her   hands   to  his  lips; 


164  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"think  of  it  ?  Have  I  not  thought  of  it  through 
long  days  and  sleepless  nights?  Would  you 
have  me  the  spectacle  of  all  men,  as  the  one 
who  could  not  keep  faith?  It  would  kill  me, 
mother;  I  could  not  live  it  down." 

"And  it  will  kill  me  if  you  do  not,"  she 
cried,  growing  excited  again;  "it  shall  not  be! 
You  shall  not  refuse  me  this.  Have  I  not  lived 
for  you?  Your  youth,  your  future  is  mine,  boy, 
and  you  shall  not  sacrifice  it  to  an  idle  scru- 
ple!" 

Laurie  sat  upon  the  prison  bench,  one  hand 
clasped  above  the  other  on  her  knee,  a  pict- 
ure of  speechless  misery.  She  remembered 
the  night  when  he  had  pleaded  with  her  as 
they  now  pleaded  with  him,  and  to  no  avail. 

They  heard  the  jailer  approaching,  and  they 
had  accomplished  nothing. 

"They  are  coming,  girl,"  said  the  elder  wo- 
man, shaking  Laurie  roughly  by  the  shoulder; 
"have  you  nothing  to  say?  He  refuses  his 
mother,  perhaps  he  will  listen  to  you." 

The  girl  came  forward,  and  raised  her  sad 
face  to  him;  he  took  both  her  hands  in  his, 
and  looked  long  into  her  eyes.     "Do  you  still 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  165 

refuse?"  his  mother  asked,  with  something  of 
her  old  imperious  manner.  It  angered  her 
that  she  could  not  bend  him  to  her  will. 

"Dear,  won't  you  promise?"  whispered 
Laurie. 

"Anything  but  that,  my  darling,"  he  said 
once  more,  his  voice  tremulous  with  pain;  "if 
I  were  base  enough  for  that,  I  would  not  de- 
serve your  love.  Do  not  urge  me,  dear  love, 
I  cannot  do  it." 

The  jailer  entered,  and  they  took  their 
leave;  the  mother  had  broken  down  again, 
and  was  weeping  bitterly;  Laurie  passed  her 
arm  around  her,  and  they  went  away  together, 
the  dog,  after  a  caress  and  a  word  from  the 
master,  following.  "Let  us  be  brave,  and  hope 
for  the  best,"  he  said  to  them,  and  tried  to 
maintain  a  steady  countenance  until  they 
were  gone;  then  threw  himself  on  his  cot, 
and  lay  there  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands, 
enduring  the  agonies  of  an  utter  despair, 
until  the  man  entered  with  the  evening  meal. 
He  saw  no  way  out  of  his  hopeless  situation. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

The  third  day  of  the  trial  had  begun,  Judge 
Napier  presiding.  Through  many  years  of 
public  service  on  the  judicial  bench  he  had 
won  the  name  of  an  incorruptible  judge. 

It  was  a  mark  of  the  people's  confidence  in 
his  integrity  that  he  was  desired  to  remain 
in  his  place  during  this  trial,  though  his  own 
son  had  been  one  of  the  prisoner's  compan- 
ions. He  offered  to  resign  his  seat  to  Judge 
Carter  of  an  adjoining  county,  but  at  the  gen- 
eral solicitation  had  kept  it. 

Accordingly,  the  venerable  judge  sat  and 
heard  the  case,  ruling  with  the  utmost  im- 
partiality, until  all  the  circumstantial  evidence 
had  been  well  discussed  by  both  sides.  A 
shrewd  query  put  by  the  state's  counsel  had 
elicited  a  piece  of  testimony  very  damaging  to 
the  prisoner.  Dr.  Marlowe  was  asked  upon 
the  stand  if  there  had  ever  been,  to  his  knowl- 
edge, any  ill  feeling  between  the  accused  and 
16G 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  167 

his  mother  on  account  of  the  former's  connec- 
tion with  the  McNaughtons.  He  was  obliged 
to  testify  that  there  had  been  some  estrange- 
ment from  that  cause. 

"Had  it  been  on  account  of  the  girl's  dis- 
sipated father,  that  the  lady  had  objected  to 
receiving  her  as  her  son's  wife?" 

He  was  again  compelled  to  say  that  it  was; 
and,  seeing  how  this  testimony  would  affect 
the  case,  the  old  man's  face  blanched  with 
dismay.  He  attempted  to  qualify  his  answer, 
but  the  examining  lawyer  said  curtly,  "That 
is  sufficient,"  and  the  minister  was  dismissed 
from  the  stand. 

The  point  was  a  telling  one  and  he  made 
the  most  of  it.  "Here  at  last,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing triumphantly  to  the  jury,  "we  have  the 
motive;   surely,  this  is  conclusive." 

The  testimony  created  a  sensation,  and  af- 
ter that,  things  began  to  look  more  and  more 
dark  for  the  defendant. 

The  witnesses  for  the  defense  had  all  testi- 
fied to  the  prisoner's  high  standing,  to  his  in- 
tegrity and  truthfulness  in  the  past;  also  the 
two  old  servants  of  the  McNaughtons  testified 


l68  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

to  the  amicable  relations  always  existing  be- 
tween the  accused  and  their  deceased  master, 
but  there  was  no  positive  evidence  to  be  given 
on  his  behalf. 

At  last  Mr.  Hank  Staples  was  called.  He 
repeated  substantially  what  he  had  said  at  the 
coroner's  inquest,  only  many  things  that  he 
then  implied,  he  now  openly  asserted. 

"You  stated  at  the  inquest,"  began  the 
state's  attorney,  "that  after  you  heard  hard 
words  between  the  prisoner  and  deceased,  you 
escaped  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  and 
saw  nothing  more  of  them  during  the  night; 
where  did  you  go  immediately  afterward?" 

"I  told  a  lie  when  I  said  that,"  said  Hank, 
bringing  a  shock  of  surprise  to  his  hearers. 

"Why  did  you  lie  to  the  coroner?" 

"I  was  afeard  the  boys  would  kill  me  ef  I 
testified  agin  'em." 

"Why  are  you  not  still  afraid?" 

"Wall,  the  sheriff  'lowed  as  they'd  all  left 
the  country  cep'n  Marlowe  an'  Iknowedhe'd 
be  hung  ef  I  tol'  the  truth." 

"Well,  will  you  proceed  and  tell  us  what 
occurred  the  night  of  the  murder?" 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  169 

Witness  then  stated  that  although  he  had 
left  the  party  at  the  time  of  the  accident,  he 
still  kept  them  in  sight,  because  he  felt  that 
his  friend  the  major  was  being  imposed  upon; 
that  he  heard  the  voices  of  Marlowe  and  the 
major  in  an  angry  altercation.  He  crept  closer 
to  the  speakers,  who  had  drawn  a  little  apart 
from  the  others.  He  heard  enough  to  under- 
stand that  the  prisoner  was  trying  to  persuade 
the  major  to  leave  C —  and  promise  not  to 
return  and  disgrace  him  and  Laurie;  and  was 
offering  him  a  high  price  to  do  so.  According 
to  his  statement,  the  prisoner  had  said  that 
he  could  never  take  the  girl  home  as  his  wife 
until  the  father  was  out  of  the  way,  and  the 
major  had  resented  this;  a  scuffle  ensued. 
"An'  the  next  thing  I  kno.wed,"  the  witness 
continued,  working  himself  up  to  a  state  of 
enthusiasm,  "Marlowe  outs  with  his  knife,  and 
I  'lowed  he  was  gwine  to  kill  the  ole  man,  so 
I  rushed  in  atween  'em;  but  'fore  I  could  git 
thar,  he'd  done  struck  the  major  wunst  an' 
was  drawin'  back  for  'nuther.  Then  I  pulled 
s  nay  knife  an'  made  that  thar  cut  what  you 
see  on  Marlowe's  arm,"  making  an  awkward, 


170  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

left-handed  gesture  toward  the  prisoner,  who 
watched  him  intently  but  had  not  been  able 
to  catch  the  orator's  eye. 

"Then,"  he  further  stated,  "all  the  fellers 
wuz  on  to  me;  and  when  I  got  up  the  ole 
man  wuz  dead.  They  all  stood  'round  an' 
made  me  swar  to  keep  quiet  'bout  the  whole 
business.  Mr.  Holbrook,  he  sez,  sez  he,  'Now, 
Hank  Staples,  you've  swore  the  oath  of  the 
mid-knights,  an'  ef  you  don'  keep  it  quiet 
you'll  go  whar  the  major  is;  don't  you  forgit 
that.'  Then  they  let  me  go,  an'  so  I  'lowed 
I'd  jist  better  go  'long  home  an'  hoi'  my 
tongue,  tell  them  young  college  chaps  wuz 
outen  the  way." 

The  witness  resumed  his  seat  and  still  had 
not  looked  at  the  prisoner.  Marlowe  had 
understood  that  this  would  be  the  end. 

During  the  first  days  of  the  trial  they  had 
placed  Laurie  in  a  part  of  the  court-room 
where  he  could  not  see  her,  but  now,  as  he 
glanced  listlessly  around  the  house,  his  glance 
fell  upon  her  where  she  sat  in  full  view  cling- 
ing to  the  old  nurse's  hand.  She  was  leaning 
forward,  her  wide   eyes   fixed  upon   the   pris- 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I71 

ooer.  The  lips  were  parted  and  her  breath 
carr  ^  heavily  through  them,  but  a  ray  of  some- 
thing almost  like  hope  lighted  the  sweet  little 
worn  face.  Their  eyes  met,  and  the  mute 
appeal  in  Laurie's  for  love,  and  life,  and  hap- 
piness, struck  through  the  despairing  calm 
he  had  maintained  throughout  the  trial,  and 
pierced  him  to  the  heart. 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  the 
arm  that  supported  it  visibly  trembled.  An 
agony  of  temptation  swept  through  him  like 
the  breath  of  the  sirocco,  fierce  and  blinding; 
for  a  moment  he  was  deaf  to  the  voices,  blind 
to  the  faces  before  him.  In  the  light  of  that 
look  he  had  caught  across  the  crowded  court- 
room, the  vision  of  a  felon's  death  passed  be- 
fore him  with  ghastly  reality — the  loss  of  all 
men's  respect,  of  life,  of  Laurie,  appalled  him 
with  a  sudden  new  power. 

A  voice  from  some  unknown  depth  in  his 
nature  cried  out  to  him,  "Speak!  speak!  be- 
fore it  is  too  late  and  your  foolish  scruple  has 
killed  yourself  and  her."  He  knew  that  soon 
another  chance  would  be  given  him,  and  the 
eternal  question  put  to  him  for  the  last  time, 
"guilty"  or  "not  guilty." 


172  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

It  seemed  such  a  little  thing  to  do;  only  to 
speak  and  turn  the  accusation  against  some 
other  member  of  the  party,  and  he  would  be 
acquitted.  All  the  other  men  were  out  of 
harm's  way,  and  would  probably  never  be 
affected  one  iota,  so  far  as  their  liberty  was 
concerned,  by  his  act.  He  had  never  been  so 
near  yielding. 

Then  came  the  other  voice  with  its  unvary- 
ing reply:  "Yes,  speak,  and  you  will  save 
all— but  honor!"  It  was  the  still  voice,  but 
for  the  thousandth  time  it  conquered.  That 
"honor"  he  must  keep  though  all  his  world 
were  lost  for  it.  Exaggerated  as  his  idea  of 
it  was,  perhaps,  that  idol  "honor"  had  ruled 
his  life,  and  must  rule  his  death  if  need  be; 
denuded  of  all  youth  clings  to,  of  respect, 
of  love,  and  joy,  still,  that  abstract  of  his 
boyish  worship  lured  him  in  the  face  of  shame, 
disgrace  and  death.  "It  was  my  sin,"  he  said, 
"to  take  lightly  upon  my  lips  a  solemn  oath;  it 
is  my  punishment  that  I  must  fulfill  it  to  the 
letter,  or  hide  my  face  from  the  sight  of  men 
forever." 

When  Marlowe   raised   his   head   again    he 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  173 

felt  he  had  lived  a  lifetime  of  doubt  and  con- 
flict, but  had  escaped  a  great  fall,  worse  than 
death.  The  cold  sweat  of  agony  was  damp 
upon  his  hands  and  forehead.  He  breathed 
again,  and  those  near  him  wondered  to  hear 
him  utter  a  deep  "Thank  God!" 

He  turned  his  eyes  again  to  the  witness- 
stand,  and  for  a  moment  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  comprehend  what  he  saw;  there 
stood  Laurie,  her  face,  from  which  every 
vestage  of  color  had  faded,  even  to  the  lips, 
fixed  upon  the  defendant's  lawyer  who  was 
examining  her.  Her  hands  were  clasped  be- 
fore her  in  the  effort  to  still  their  trembling. 
It  had  been  agreed  by  the  prosecution  that 
she  should  not  be  summoned  as  a  witness, 
and  Marlowe  had  pleaded  with  his  own  lawyer 
that  it  should  not  be  done.  Then  he  realized 
that  the  astute  lawyer  had  duped  him,  and 
brought  her  forward  as  a  last  resource. 

In  fact,  the  attorney,  when  his  last  hope  of 
influencing  the  prisoner  to  make  a  statement 
had  vanished,  called  upon  Laurie  and  ex- 
plained that  his  forlorn  remaining  hope  was 
that  Marlowe  might  have  confessed  something 


174  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

to  her  in  his  extremity.  Her  manner  con- 
vinced him  that  he  was  right;  it  was  at  that 
moment,  perhaps,  she  had  taken  her  resolve. 

Marlowe  wondered  what  it  all  meant. 
What  good  could  her  testimony  do?  Then 
the  examination  continued,  and  he  realized 
that  what  he  would  not  stoop  to  do  for  him- 
self, she  was  going  to  do  for  him. 

Her  unexpected  appearance  on  the  stand 
had  created  a  sensation;  to  see  her  standing 
there  so  frail-looking  and  terrified  by  the  stern 
surroundings  while  he  sat  helpless,  was  almost 
more  than  he  could  bear. 

"You  say  you  saw  the  prisoner  on  the  night 
of  his  arrest;  for  what  purpose  did  he  return 
to  see  you?" 

Her  lips  parted  to  answer,  but  the  words 
were  inaudible.  The  lawyer  changed  the 
form  of  his  query:  "Was  that  the  first  time 
you  had  seen  the  prisoner  after  your  father's 
death?" 

"Yes." 

"What  was  the  object  of  his  visit?" 

"He  wanted  me  to  go  with  him." 

"Did  you  refuse  to  do  so?" 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  175 

"I  refused  at  first." 

"Why  did  you  refuse?" 

"Because  I — because  they  had  said  he  was 
with  the  murderers." 

"Did  you  believe  him  guilty  of  your  father's 
murder?" 

"I  did  not  believe  him  guilty,  but  begged 
him  to  tell  me  that  he  was  not." 

"Did  you  make  that  a  condition  of  your 
going  with  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  beg  that  he  would  confide  to  you 
alone  the  name  of  the  guilty  one?" 

"Yes." 

"What  was  his  reply  to  this?" 

In  his  anticipated  triumph  the  lawyer  drew 
forth  this  testimony  word  for  word  and  failed 
to  see  what  all  the  others  saw,  that  the  wit- 
ness was  on  the  point  of  fainting. 

He  paused  to  make  a  note  of  her  evidence, 
and  she  glanced  at  the  prisoner.  Her  eyes 
fell  before  his,  and  a  burning  blush  mounted 
to  her  forehead.  It  was  the  supreme  mo- 
ment of  her  life;  the  last  hope  for  the  defense 
hung  upon  her  answer.     She   stood   support- 


176  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

ing  herself  by  one  hand  upon  the  railing,  the 
other  she  clasped  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  floor. 

The  counsel,  now  sure  of  her  reply,  repeat- 
ed the  question  in  his  kindest  tone,  trying  to 
reassure  her. 

"Did  the  prisoner  then  comply  with  your  re- 
quest?" 

Another  painful  silence;  then  a  strange  thing 
happened — the  girl  threw  up  her  arms  in  a 
wild  gesture  and  a  bitter,  wailing  "No!  No! 
No!"  escaped  her.  Truth  had  triumphed,  for 
her  strength  had  not  been  equal  to  her  love. 

From  that  moment  the  prisoner's  doom  was 
sealed. 

By  tacit  agreement  the  pitiable  episode 
was  passed  over  in  silence.  Sympathy  for  her 
in  the  court-room  amounted  almost  to  agony. 
The  case  was  taken  up  where  Hank  Staples' 
testimony  had  left  it. 

Turning  to  the  jury,  the  prosecuting  attorney 
said,  "Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  fortunately 
you  will  not  be  under  the  unpleasant  neces- 
sity of  convicting  the  prisoner  on  purely  cir- 
cumstantial evidence,  strong  as  it  is  in  this 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 77 

case.  This  witness,  Mr.  Staples,  being  for- 
merly in  mortal  fear  of  the  violence  of  these 
young  men,  in  whose  company  he  was  on  that 
fatal  night,  for  that  reason  has  kept  back  im- 
portant evidence  to  shield  them,  but  now 
being  troubled  in  conscience,  and  moved  by 
the  promptings  of  duty,  he  has  come  forward 
and  given  you  a  detailed  account  of  this  most 
atrocious  assassination !" 

The  witness,  sitting  in  his  place,  was  so 
strangely  affected  by  the  unwonted  experi- 
ence of  hearing  himself  well  spoken  of,  that 
he  had  to  pinch  his  ear  to  convince  himself 
that  he  was  not  dreaming. 

The  mother  of  the  prisoner,  now  utterly 
prostrated  since  her  last  visit  to  the  prison, 
was  confined  to  her  bed,  and  delirium  inter- 
posed to  save  her  from  the  scene  which  was 
so  soon  to  take  place  in  the  court-room,  with 
her  idolized  son  as  the  central  figure. 

The  prisoner  was  asked  again  if  he  wished 
to  say  anything  in  his  own  defense. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  he  answered. 

"Is  the  court  to  understand  that  you  plead 
guilty?"  inquired  the  judge. 

12 


I78  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

"I  cannot  say  what  the  court  understands. " 

"Is  not  that  a  virtual  confession  that  you 
were  either  the  murderer,  or  accessory  there- 
to?" 

"I  confess  nothing."" 

"Do  you  deny  it?" 

"I  deny  nothing." 

The  judge  knitted  his  brows,  and  was  puz- 
zled as  to  what  action  to  take.  He  had  sin- 
cerely hoped  that  the  young  fellow  would  be 
tempted  to  speak  out,  and  say  something  in 
his  own  behalf.  It  cut  him  deeply  to  see 
matters  going  against  him,  though  none  would 
have  guessed  his  feelings  from  his  face. 

Thus  the  three  days  were  occupied  by  the 
lawyers  for  and  against  the  accused.  Many 
chapters  of  florid  rhetoric  were  furnished  to 
the  village  newspaper  and  the  eager  listeners 
in  the  court-room,  before  the  jury  retired. 

The  solemn,  thrilling  words  of  the  judge, 
as  he  gave  them  their  final  charge,  and 
brought  home  to  them  the  awful  nature  of 
their  responsibility,  not  one  of  those  twelve 
men  ever  forgot. 

The  tension  of  feeling  in  the  court-room 
during  that  speech  was  painful. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  1 79 

Three  days  more  were  consumed  before  they 
could  come  to  a  verdict.  They  had  the  her- 
culean task  of  separating  their  instinctive 
liking  for  the  prisoner,  and  their  distrust  of 
the  witness  Hank  Staples,  from  the  evidence, 
as  it  really  stood  from  a  legal  point  of  view. 
It  was  hard  for  them  to  be  obliged  to  take 
this  fellow's  evidence  against  a  gentleman; 
but  in  the  strange  nature  of  the  case,  his  was 
the  only  direct  evidence  produced  by  the  trial, 
and  there  was  nothing  brought  out  by  the  de- 
fense which  could  antagonize  it.  The  circum- 
stances all  coincided  with  it  perfectly.  Few 
people  in  the  world  would  have  suspected 
Hank  Staples  of  ingenuity  enough  (even  had 
they  known  his  motive)  to  concoct  this  plan 
of  evidence  to  suit  the  circumstances.  In  so 
much  had  they  underrated  him.  The  wound 
in  Marlowe's  arm,  the  failure  of  the  prisoner 
to  account  for  it  otherwise,  all  were  argu- 
ments in  favor  of  the  prosecution,  which  it 
was  impossible  for  the  jury,  in  accordance 
with  their  oath,  to  ignore,  and  after  a  long 
battle  with  themselves,  they  finally  brought 
in  their  verdict. 


l8o  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

It  was:  "Guilty  of  murder." 

The  prisoner  was  then  asked  in  the  usual 
formula,  "Have  you  anything  to  say  why 
sentence  should  not  be  pronounced  upon  you 
according  to  law?" 

Again  he  answered: 

"Nothing." 


CHAPTER  XV 

Marlowe  had  risen  to  receive  his  sentence. 
The  whole  body  of  listeners  held  its  breath 
in  one  emotion  of  intense  anxiety.  In  the 
court  his  friends  vastly  predominated.  The 
love  story  of  Walter  and  little  Laurie 
McNaughton  had  been  cruelly  dragged  into 
public  view,  and  the  pity  of  it  all — Marlowe's 
pale  face,  Laurie's  somber  mourning,  and 
above  all,  the  extreme  youth  and  beauty  of 
both — went  straight  to  the  heart  of  every 
woman,  and  many  men,  in  the  house 

Judge  Napier  arose  amid  the  breathless 
hush,  and  stepped  forward.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  he  had  not  been  able  to  form 
an  opinion  in  his  own  mind  as  to  the  inno- 
cence or  guilt  of  the  accused,  but  in  his 
stanch  old  heart  he  loved  him  for  the  manly 
courage  that  refused  to  criminate  his  com- 
panions,— which  the  avowal  of  his  own  inno- 
cence would  of  course  do.  He  looked  at  the 
181 


l82  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

young  fellow,  standing  there  in  jeopardy  of  his 
life,  yet  refusing  to  stoop  or  purchase  mercy. 

He  thought  of  the  days  when  Walter  and 
his  own  beloved  boy  had  played  together  in 
school-boy  comradeship;  and  the  contrast  of 
this  youth  standing  up  to  face,  perhaps,  the 
consequences  of  their  common  misdeeds,  and 
his  own  Harry  hiding  his  head,  a  fugitive  from 
the  law,  smote  the  proud  man  deeply,  and  for 
a  moment  he  almost  envied  the  broken  old 
white-haired  minister  his  son. 

It  was  the  same  temper  that  spoke  in  the 
actions  of  these  three  men — the  Southern 
character  in  its  best  estate.  The  youth  who 
would  not  buy  his  safety  with  dishonor,  the 
father  who  would  not  urge  his  son  to  a  cow- 
ardly act  though  the  result  was  hastening  his 
gray  hairs  to  the  grave,  and  the  judge  who 
did  honor  to  the  magnificent  heroism  of  the 
young  man,  while  he  pronounced  the  inevita- 
ble verdict  upon  his  legally  proven  act. 

The  judge  paused  for  the  briefest  instant, 
then  addressed  the  prisoner  by  name. 

Marlowe  returned  his  look  unflinchingly, 
though  a  bright   flush   rose   to   his   face,  and 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  183 

faded  again,  leaving  it,  if  possible,  a  shade 
paler  than  before.  He  felt  the  eyes  upon 
him,  the  eyes  of  familiar  friends  and  compan- 
ions of  his  college  days. 

In  the  dead  silence  that  preceded  the  next 
words,  the  sound  of  a  rider  approaching  the 
court-house  and  abruptly  halting  was  dis- 
tinctly heard.  The  next  minute  a  confusion 
of  voices  at  the  door;  then,  parting  the  dense 
throng  in  a  way  that  belonged  to  him,  the  tall 
form  of  Harry  Napier  appeared  in  the  house. 
He  was  travel-stained,  and  his  spurred  heel 
on  the  hard  floor  made  a  strange  sound  in  the 
hush  that  pervaded  the  great  crowd  as  he 
walked  up  the  aisle. 

The  judge  stood  speechless,  staring  at  the 
apparition. 

The  young  man  approached  the  judge's 
bench,  and  took  off  his  hat;  he  turned  first 
toward  the  jury  box,  then  to  the  house,  and 
in  his  ringing  voice  said:  "Gentlemen  of  the 
court,  and  you  who  are  interested  in  the  trial 
of  my  friend  Walter  Marlowe  for  the  killing 
of  Major  McNaughton,  I  am  here,  an  unan- 
nounced witness,  with  important   evidence  to 


184  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

present,  before  judgment  is  pronounced  upon 
the  accused.      Can  I  be  heard?" 

The  thing  was  irregular  and  the  prosecution 
demurred,  but  the  abruptness  of  his  entrance 
had  paralyzed  all  movements  for  the  moment, 
and  overruled  authority. 

The  judge  had  resumed  his  seat,  his  eyes 
fixed  in  a  horrible  fascination  upon  his  son. 
A  presentiment  of  coming  evil  froze  his  blood. 
What  would  the  madcap  do  now?  Was  he  go- 
ing to  take  the  guilt  upon  himself  to  free  his 
friend?  The  thought  benumbed  his  faculties 
and  he  sat  like  one  deprived  of  his  reason. 

A  feeling  of  relief  had  electrified  the  house 
at  sight  of  Napier.  At  last,  they  thought,  the 
strange  silence  would  be  broken. 

There  was  a  diversion  of  a  few  seconds  and 
some  one  rushed  with  wild  eyes  and  ashen 
cheek,  from  the  court-room.  It  was  the  wit- 
ness, Hank  Staples,  who,  when  Napier  en- 
tered, found  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  too 
close  for  him  and  made  a  mad  dash  for  the 
open  air. 

Napier  saw  his  opportunity  and  took  advan- 
tage of  the  confusion.      He  knew  this  was  ir- 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  185 

regular,  that  his  evidence  could  not  be  legally 
taken  in  this  way,  but  his  object  was  to  be 
heard — only  to  be  heard,  at  any  cost. 

"Honored  sir,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
the  judge,  "I  am  aware  that  this  proceeding 
does  not  conform  to  the  customs  of  this  court, 
but  I  have  evidence  to  give  which  will  justify 
the  intrusion." 

He  drew  a  folded  paper  from  his  breast  and 
glanced  hurriedly  over  it. 

"This  paper  contains  the  statement  I  wish 
to  make." 

The  judge  still  sat  speechless  gazing  at 
him;  the  counsel  for  the  prosecution  rose  to 
protest,  but  he  would  not  be  silenced.  He 
was  desperate  and  in  his  rashest  mood. 

"One  moment,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  fin- 
ished. I  am  one  of  the  number  under  indict- 
ment for  the  murder  of  Major  McNaughton, 
and  escaped  the  night  the  order  was  issued 
for  our  arrest,  as  I  supposed  that  all  the  rest 
had  done.  A  week  ago  I  learned  of  my  friend's 
arrest ;  had  I  known  of  his  long  imprisonment 
I  should  have  returned  sooner." 

Here  he  looked  steadily  at  the  prisoner. 


1 86  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

Marlowe  returned  the  look  with  one  which 
said  plainly:  "Will  you  break  that  oath  after 
all  I  have  suffered  to  keep  it?" 

Napier  understood  the  look  and  smiled,  a 
strange  enigma  of  a  smile — they  had  loved 
each  other  well,  these  two.  He  went  on 
rapidly. 

"I  did  not  believe  it  possible  until  now  that 
Walter  Marlowe  could  be  convicted  here  upon 
the  evidence  of  a  low-bred  scoundrel,  though 
such  has  been  the  case.  I  have  been  warned 
by  a  signal  arranged  between  friends  of  the 
prisoner's  and  mine  of  the  verdict  of  the  jury; 
I  learn  that  that  verdict  is  a  conviction  of 
murder  and — I  am  here." 

A  murmur  went  through  the  assembly. 
Would  he  break  the  oath?  was  the  excited 
query  now;  and  all  those  at  all  familiar  with 
the  time  and  place  where  this  event  was  trans- 
piring, will  realize  the  extreme  exaggeration, 
the  exalted  and  overstrained  sentiment  which 
attached  to  such  an  oath,  and  the  terrible 
consequences  to  the  self-respect  of  the  man 
who  should  break  it.  Adherence  to  the  letter 
of  an  oath,  at  any   price,    was    the  fetish    at 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  187 

whose  shrine  these  young  fellows  would  sac- 
rifice anything, — excepting  a  friend,  no  one 
had  ever  been  called  upon  to  do  that  before. 

How  would  he  decide? 

Every  eye  watched  him,  every  ear  hung 
upon  his  words.  The  aged  fathers  of  each  of 
the  men  sat  mute  spectators  of  the  scene. 

The  prisoner,  the  witness  and  the  judge 
were  objects  of  the  greatest  interest,  but  the 
one  eye  that  never  left  the  speaker,  was  that 
of  the  judge.  Suddenly  he  sprang  forward 
with  a  loud  cry  and  staggered  towards  his 
son. 

The  young  man  had  raised  his  hand  at  the 
words,  "I  am  here,"  and  the  report  of  a  pis- 
tol shot  followed  the  cry.  He  had  taken  the 
folded  paper  in  his  left  hand.  He  fired  with 
the  weapon  at  his  temple,  and  death  was  in- 
stantaneous. He  fell  backward  without  a  con- 
tortion and  died  as  he  had  lived,  rashly  and 
fearlessly. 

The  prisoner  started  up  at  the  report,  with 
a  deep  self-anathema  upon  his  lips  that  he 
had  not  foreseen  this  ending  and  forestalled 
it.     But  the  hand  of  the  officer  was  upon  his 


1 88  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

shoulder,  and  he  fell  back  into   his  seat,  real- 
king  the  futility  of  all  effort  now. 

Harry,  the  prince,  the  idol  of  his  fellows, 
had  gone  to  render  his  account  before  another 
Judge  and  Father,  in  the  court  of  Him  who 
gave  that  wild,  ungovernable  spirit,  and  who, 
alone,  could  judge  it  justly. 

The  old  judge  uttered  no  sound  after  that 
first  wild  cry;  he  knelt  by  his  son,  his  hand 
upon  the  boy's  forehead,  pushing  the  hair 
back  from  it  and  gazing  steadily  upon  the  be- 
loved face. 

They  had  taken  the  paper  and  read  its  con- 
tents. Some  one  touched  the  old  man  upon 
the  shoulder.  He  rose  with  an  abstracted 
look  and  adjusted  his  dress  in  a  mechanical 
way.  He  looked  about  him  for  an  instant, 
then  with  something  like  the  ghost  of  his  old 
manner  tottered  to  his  seat.  Unbending  to 
the  last,  he,  the  judge,  would  end  the  matter 
in  the  judge's  place. 

After  some  legal  forms  had  been  gone 
through  Marlowe's  counsel  mov$d  a  suspen- 
sion of  sentence,  and  the  judge  announced 
that  it  was  granted.  The  accused  was  re- 
manded to  prison. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

The  story  of  Napier's  testimony  and  the 
change  it  had  wrought  in  the  aspect  of  Mar- 
lowe's trial  was  well  known,  but  the  citizens 
of  C —  were  eager  to  know  the  exact  substance 
of  it.  It  was  the  first  morning  of  the  new 
trial.  The  same  crowd  was  assembled  to  hear 
the  end  of  the  strange  drama.  There  was 
only  one  familiar  face  missing;  a  younger  man 
sat  in  the  stead  of  the  venerable  judge  whose 
place  should  know  him  no  more;  that  stanch 
old  heart  was  broken  at  last. 

There  was  a  whispered  conference  among 
the  attorneys,  and  presently,  defendant's 
counsel  rose  with  the  fateful  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said,  "we  have  come  into 

possession  of  new  evidence  in  this    case,  and 

although  the  manner  in  which   it  was  received 

is  irregular  and  almost    without    precedent  m 

any  court,  it  is    indispensable    that   it  should 
189 


igO  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

be  heard.     With    permission  of   the  counsel 
for  the  prosecution,  I  will  read  it." 

The  lawyer  for  the  state  acquiesced  and 
with  an  unconscious  solemnity  in  his  voice, 
he  unfolded  the  paper  and  began. 

This  was  the  testimony  of  Harry  Napier: 
"I  solemnly  swear,  in  the  name  of  that  God 
in  whose  presence  I  will  be  when  this  testi- 
mony is  taken,  that  the  evidence  herein  con- 
tained concerning  the  death  of  Major 
McNaughton  which  occurred  on  the  night  of 
June  — th  is  the  whole  truth.  The  people  of 
Q — are  familiar  with  the  nature  of  that  oath 
of  the  'mid  knights,'  which  binds  all  the  par- 
ties in  that  tragical  event  to  silence;  that  it 
is  equally  binding  on  the  guilty,  and  on  the 
innocent;  and  I  am  confident  that  not  a  man 
among  our  member  would  break  that  oath  to 
save  his  own  life.  It  has  been  a  matter  of 
pride  with  us  to  keep  it. 

"The  escapade  that  brought  about  the  trag- 
edy of  that  June  night,  began  in  mere  sport, 
the  real  wrong  in  it  being,  I  now  see,  in  lead- 
ing the  major  astray,  and  using  him  for  out." 
amusement    when   confused    with   rum,    but 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  igi 

even  of  this,  I  exonerate  Marlowe;  he  was, 
on  that  night,  and  always,  the  major's  true 
friend.  Our  party  was  on  the  way  to  escort 
the  old  man  home,  because  Marlowe  insisted 
upon  doing  so,  and  we  were  not  willing  to 
lose  him. 

"Major  McNaughton  had  been  drinking 
heavily.  When  we  attempted  to  cross  the  ford 
of  the  river  near  his  house,  the  major's  horse — 
the  mare  Senora,  of  whom  he  was  passionately 
fond — lost  her  footing,  went  over  the  rocks  and 
was  killed.  When  the  major,  whom  Marlowe 
had  rescued  from  the  water,  saw  the  mare 
was  drowning,  he  attempted  to  rush  in  and 
save  her.  To  do  so  in  his  condition,  would 
have  been  suicide.  I  put  my  arms  around 
him  and  held  him  back.  This  rendered  him 
furious  and  when  he  saw  the  horse  was  gone, 
he  turned  and  struck  me  with  the  whip  he 
carried  in  his  hand.  I  remember  nothing  be- 
tween the  insult  of  those  repeated  blows,  and 
the  motion  with  which  I  stabbed  him  once, 
twice,  and  three  times.  But  I  exonerate  one 
and  all  of  my  companions  from  having  any 
hand  in  it   whatever.      Marlowe    received  the 


ig2  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

wound  in  his  arm  in  trying  to  stay  my  hand. 
In  a  moment  the  deed  was  done.  I  besought 
my  companions  to  leave  me  and  I  would  bear 
the  consequences  of  my  own  deed;  but  then 
came  the  memory  of  that  oath  of  the  'mid- 
knights,  '  which  binds  all  alike,  and  we  again 
shook  hands  and  pledged  ourselves  anew  to 
silence  even  to  the  bitter  end. 

"To  baffle  pursuit,  we  resolved  to  hold  no 
communication  with  each  other  for  a  year. 
We  did  not  know  of  Marlowe's  engagement  to 
the  major's  daughter,  nor  that  he  returned  to 
C —  after  our  final  parting.  I  would  to  God 
that  I  had  known  how  matters  stood  with 
him,  the  knowledge  might  have  stayed  my 
hand,  even  then,  when  I  felt  the  stinging 
blows  of  that  man's  whip  across  my  face, — I 
did  not  know. 

"All  this  I  learned  but  a  few  days  ago,  when, 
after  becoming  restless  and  tired  of  travel,  I 
returned,  and  learned  also  that  our  plan  of 
mutual  silence  was  rendered  worthless  by  the 
false  witness  of  Hank  Staples,  whom  we 
allowed  to  accompany  us  that  fatal  night, 
merely  out  of  regard  for  the  major's  feelings. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  193 

His  evidence  is  totally  false.  I  do  not  take 
this  course  in  the  mistaken  idea  that  there  is 
anything  heroic  in  what  I  do;  there  is  no 
other  way.  To  have  lived  to  see  my  friend 
suffering  for  my  deed,  or  to  go  through  the 
world  with  the  infamy  of  the  broken  oath 
would  be  worse  than  death.  There  is  one  sav- 
ing clause  in  the  oath  of  the  'mid-knights;' 
the  last  paragraph  runs  in  this  way: 

"'In  the  name  of  heaven,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  you  my  companions,  I  do  solemnly 
swear  that  I  will  never  reveal  the  secrets  of 
this  night,  so  long  as  I  shall  live.  So  help 
me  God!'" 

Below  was  written  the  following: 

"Adieu,  my  friends,  forgive  but  do  not  for- 
get me. 

"(Signed.)  Harry  Napier." 

Then  was  added  a  P.  S. : 

"I  would  ask  of  my  friend  Walter  Marlowe 
that  he  will  spare  no  pains  to  let  the  others 
know,  wherever  they  may  be  wandering  over 
the  earth,  through  their  loyalty  to  their  oath 
and  to  me,  that  the  price  is  paid,  and  the 
stigma  lifted  from  their  names." 


194  A    MODERN    QUIXOTE 

The  lawyer  finished  and  a  dead  silence  fol- 
lowed his  words.  With  that  tragic  sight  of  yes- 
terday fresh  in  their  memory,  this  parting  mes- 
sage from  the  dead  affected  the  people  deeply. 

The  rest  was  a  matter  of  form  only.  The 
state's  attorney  arose  and  said:  "Your  Honor, 
on  the  strength  of  this  new  evidence,  I  move 
a  nolle  prosequi,  that  the  case  be  dismissed 
and  the  prisoner  stand  acquitted." 

Marlowe  was  then  pronounced  a  free  man. 
Friends  gathered  round  him — tearful  con- 
gratulations from  the  women,  the  firm  grasp 
of  friendship  from  the  men — but  all  instinct- 
ively drew  back  when  two  old  negroes  ap- 
proached through  the  crowd  with  a  little  black- 
robed  figure  between  them. 

When  the  brave  young  fellow  who  had  borne 
up  under  so  much,  saw  Laurie  coming  and, 
forgetting  all  else,  held  out  his  arms  to  her, 
the  least  delicate  of  them  all  felt  an  impulse 
to  avert  the  head.  Old  Ben  and  Viney  sat 
down  upon  the  floor  and  wept  for  joy. 

His  mother  awaited  them,  propped  upon 
the  pillows  of  her  sick  room — into  which  we 
may  not  follow. 


A    MODERN    QUIXOTE  I95 

One  day  when  spring  had  come  again,  Wal- 
ter Marlowe  and  Laurie  stood  by  the  grave 
of  Harry  Napier.  He  bared  his  head  while 
she  stooped  down  and  laid  a  cluster  of  white 
blossoms  upon  the  mound — it  was  her  wedding 
wreath.  She  was  crying  softly,  but  in  his 
face  was  a  look  of  sorrow  too  great  for  such 
expression.  t* 

In  the  road  near  by  waited  the  carriage  that* 
was  to  speed  them  on  their  wedding  journey. 
When  they  looked  back  again  to  wave  him  a 
last  adieu  the  sunlight  struck  a  golden  gleam 
across  the  marble  headstone,  and  they  knew 
it  was  shining  on  the  words  their  gratitude 
had  carved  there: 

"Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,  that 
a  man  lay  down  his  life  for  his  friends." 


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